Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 3: The Will of a Single Man
by WOLFxVSlayer667
Summary: Makarov has ignited World War 3. Only the Task Force 141, Delta Squadron, and Hunter 2-1 can save the world, or will it be too late? Rated M for blood, gore, extreme violence, strong language, and more along the way. Discretion is advised to all readers.
1. Prologue

**Well guys, its Friday! And what better of a day than to start my third story, Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 3? This was my favorite COD story ever, though I thought it was far too short and could have been a lot better, so this will be at least two to three times the length of the original game. Also, I'm increasing the length of the chapters to make them even better so I can't upload as often as I used to, but I hope you guys enjoy it!**

**-WOLF**

"Prologue"

CPT John 'Soap' MacTavish

Task Force 141 'DISAVOWED'

East India

_/Planet Designation Number /_

_/30,000 Standard Lightyears from Armnia/_

_/Current Status: World Conflict in Progress/ _

_/Scanning Transmissions-Two Transmission Detected/_

_/Decoding-Standby/_

_/First Transmission-Source: V. MAKAROV/_

"_All warfare is based on deception. For years the western hypocrisy has turned this world-our world-into a battlefield. The corrupt talk while our brothers and sons spill their own blood. The seed, however, cuts both ways. The bigger the lie, the more likely that people will actually believe it, as well as those who spread it. And when a nation cries for vengeance, the lie will spread like an untamed, insatiable wild fire. The fire shall then build, devouring everything in its path. Our enemies alone believe that they dictate the course of history. What they do not understand, however, is that it does not take the most powerful nations on Earth to write history, nor is it they who can bring forth a world conflict. All it truly takes is the will of a single man."_

_/End Transmission-Standby/_

_/Second Transmission-CPT J. PRICE/_

"_There is never a time in history that humanity does not find itself in mortal conflict. There have been revolutions, civil wars, even World Wars. There were two World Wars in the twentieth century. Then, the world changed. In the year 2011, Ultranationalist rebels in Saudi Arabia and Russia began a vicious campaign against the other nations of the planet. A man in Saudi Arabia, Khaled Al-Asad, murdered the president, Al-Fulani, in Saudi Arabia. The United States Marines were sent to Saudi Arabia to kill Al-Asad and prevent an invasion on American soil while we, the men of the British SAS traveled to Russia to assist the Loyalist forces against the Ultranationalists who threatened the people of Russia._

_ "We discovered a devious plot that at the time was believed to be orchestrated by Al-Asad, and we were sadly unable to prevent the deaths of the thirty thousand marines that had entered the capital city. In the heart of the city was a nuclear warhead that detonated as they attempted to escape the city, only for all of them to be killed. We finally tracked down Al-Asad, only for me to discover that my old enemy from the 'nineties, Imran Zakhaev, was back at large and was the true threat._

_ "Once we discovered that it was Zakhaev who was behind the attack, we linked up with the Navy SEALs and the remaining Marines that weren't in Arabia when the nuke was detonated. With the help of our Loyalist allies, we were able to track down his son, Victor Zakhaev. Unfortunately, he killed himself before we could get information out of the kid. Luckily, the death of his son prompted Imran Zakhaev to declare war against America by launching nuclear missiles at the east coast. We were able to stop the missiles from hitting the United States and we were able to kill Zakhaev, but not before our friends and allies, Staff Sergeant Griggs and Gaz were killed. It was Soap who finished the blood feud between Zakhaev and me once and for all._

_ "Three years afterward, Soap and I were recruited into the prestigious Task Force 141 under the command of the American, General Shepherd. In one of our missions to Chernobyl, Ukraine, I was captured as we searched for the new Ultranationalist leader, Vladimir Makarov. Soap, Roach, and Ghost continued on to fight the Ultranationalist threat as I was locked up in a Russian Gulag. Then, their team discovered a downed ACS module behind enemy lines in Kazakhstan and was sent in to retrieve it as a CIA operative, Private First Class Joseph Allen, was sent in with Makarov and his men. They traveled to Moscow, Russia where they ruthlessly murdered hundreds of civilians in the Zakhaev International Airport. Makarov killed Allen and left his body for the Russians to find, thereby making Russia ignite war against the United States of America._

_ "As Soap, Ghost, and Roach were sent to Rio De Janeiro to find Makarov's weapons dealer, Alejandro Rojas, the Rangers were sent to America along with all other detachments of Americans to defend the states from the Russian invasion. Before I knew it, Soap and the rest of the Task Force 141 rescued me and with their help, I was able to launch a nuclear missile that fired an EMP over America that halted the Russian invasion._

_ "When their mission was complete, me, Soap, the Task Force 141, and Shepherd's men, Shadow Company, were sent in to Afghanistan to find Makarov while Ghost, Roach, and their team were sent to Russia to see if Makarov was at his safe house and recover his intelligence. Too late for us and for them, General Shepherd betrayed us, killing off the majority of the Task Force 141 as well as Ghost and Roach. I, Soap, and Nikolai escaped to an abandoned base in Afghanistan where we uncovered Shepherd's plan. It was not Zakhaev who killed the Marines; it was all the work of General Shepherd. He planned on destroying the planet through another world conflict and then unite it under a supreme Empire, with him at the throne._

_ "Soap and I traveled to Hotel Site Bravo to hunt down Shepherd and end his plans before he could put them in motion. In the wake of a sandstorm in the rusted factory, Soap killed Shepherd just as he killed Zakhaev. Nikolai arrived to help us escape despite my protests that this was strictly a one-way trip. So now I must ask the question: Now that the world as you knew it is gone, just how far would you go to bring it back? Shepherd created this war but only we knew the truth. It is time to have our truth written and to stop this war."_

_ "Nikolai," Price said as they carried Soap to the Little Bird helicopter. "We've got to get Soap out of here."_

_ "Da," he replied. "I know a place."_

_/End Transmission/_

_Thump Thump._

What was that sound? Where was it coming from? He knew not the answer to either question. Then, the odd question came to him, one that terrified him just as much. Who was _he_?What was he doing there? Why couldn't he see?

_Thump Thump._

That noise . . . it was forlorn and reminded him of an odd heartbeat. At the same time, it was tantalizing and yet . . . it was soothing. The sound was like an alien lullaby. He listened and let it fall into a repetitive dream. He couldn't understand the sound, but he liked it all the same. He wanted to go to sleep, to fall into an unconscious state where he could dream of the sound and let it soothe his pain. Then, he remembered: PAIN.

No. No, he didn't want to wake up. Not now, not EVER! He couldn't bear that horrible pain! Yet as soon as the word popped into his mind, he felt it. He burned yet he was cold. He couldn't understand it, but then he remembered. There was a smooth, cold sensation as a sharp object slid into his chest. Blood was everywhere, he burned, and he felt his life ebb and fade. He groaned and tussled, the pain in his chest growing. The sound grew louder and faster, less like a lullaby and more like an electronic device.

_Thump Thump, Thump Thump, Thump Thump, THUMP THUMP_. He wanted to curl in a ball and let the unconsciousness take the unbearable pain away forever, but his mind screamed not to. _Why?_ He asked. _For you will die if you do not wake. Rouse yourself!_ His mind replied. Soap shook his head_. No. I don't want to go back. It hurts._ His mind screamed at him more, though it sounded more like the thumping sound. The pain in his head was as terrible as the pain in his body, and his eyes shot open. He saw the source of the sound: propellers. It was a helicopter that was above him.

He lied down on a leather object. He tried to move his head but it wouldn't respond. Out of the corner of his eye, he realized that he was lying on a stretcher. As his confusion grew, a dark shadow fell over him. He returned his gaze upward to the sight of an old man in his mid-forties. He wore a cowboy hat and ruined clothes. On the other side of the stretcher was another man wearing a pilot's uniform and a baseball cap turned backwards.

A name came to mind. No, two names. _Price Captain John. Nikolai._ He looked at the second man. _Nikolai_. The name connected and he knew the name of the second man. The first man. _Price Captain John_. The name didn't seem right, though. _John Price Captain_. No, not that either. _Captain John Price._ Yes, that was it. He could remember now. _Price_. _Nikolai_. Who was he? He searched the recesses of his mind for an answer. It came slightly easier than he thought. _Captain John MacTavish. Soap._ What an odd name.

Price put a hand on Soap's. Turning to the second man, he yelled, "GET HIM INSIDE!" Nikolai nodded and they gripped the sides of the stretcher and began to run. He was suddenly forced into a powerful flashback. Or was it from the future?

_He was in a helicopter, a Black Hawk to be precise. There was a massive storm outside. A man sat across from him, smoking a cigar. He looked strangely like Price. When he turned, he realized that it was. The only difference was his eyes, which were not the eyes of any normal human-they were black, the irises and the white outer edges of his eyes replaced with black pits that held no emotion whatsoever. He smirked at him. _What the hell kind of a name is 'Soap', eh? How did a muppet like you pass selection?_ Soap could not-and would not-respond. The lightning flashed and thunder boomed outside in the maelstrom._

"The safe house is up ahead!" Nikolai screamed. They were under a large stone arch now, running through the oddly vacant streets of an unknown city. Now he could see blood in his eyes.

"Keep moving!" Price replied, his breathing labored and strained.

_He was on a bridge now, staring at Price. He clutched a grievous wound on his side as he lied down next to a burning car. With effort, he slid a pistol across the destroyed bridge towards him. Grabbing it, he rolled onto his back and aimed at three men. He fired at the guards and killed them, blood spurting from their wounds as he killed them. The third, a dark man with a thick, sickening beard turned. He was missing his left arm. He raised the gun and aimed at his head. He raised his right arm to shoot at him, but he had already fired the pistol Price gave him._

"Keep Pressure on that wound!" Price ordered.

"I know, I'm trying!" Nikolai replied savagely. He looked back at him as they ran through the crowded halls of an odd building. There were civilians on either side of the hallway, pressing themselves against the walls as the two rushed him through the building. They all looked at him in interest, then confusion, and then horror. As they ran, Nikolai looked back at him, worry in his dark eyes. "Just keep hanging in there, my friend!"

_Price sat in the front of a Zodiac. He fired two shots at a Black Hawk, the bullets destroying the tail rudder and causing a chain reaction throughout the helicopter, causing it to fall to the ground far below. Price looked back at him. _Back up, back up!_ He screamed. The current was too strong, though, and they went over the edge of the waterfall. He smashed into the pool at the bottom, the cold clinging to him like icy tendrils seeking to drown the life from his body._

"Get out of the bloody way and get a doctor!" Price screamed. Soap tasted blood and saw more blood, his vision becoming a red, blurry haze. Twin doors made of a thick type of wood barricaded the end of the hall. They burst through the doors, a bright light enveloping Soap.

_He was on the ground; a knife plunged deep inside of his breast bone, blood dripping on the ground below him and staining the rocks and sand in the abandoned, rusted factory. Two meters away, an American General-a name came to mind, Shepherd-was on top of Price, beating him to death. Each time his fist landed, it connected with a loud thwacking sound. Blood leaked from scratches on Price's face, his friend unconscious and surely dying as Shepherd continued to kill him. He yelled Shepherd's name, causing him to look up in confusion. He had already taken the knife from his chest, and now held the blade in his fingers. He drew back, and then threw with all of his might. The blade sank into his face, blood spewing from his head as he lurched backward. He screeched in agony as the knife hit him. Then, he rose back to his knees and the knife flew back into Soap's hand, the blood and tissue that he destroyed in Shepherd's face returning as though he was watching a rewinding tape of what had happened. He gave an evil smile, then raised a gun and shot Price in the head. He turned it to Soap and pulled the trigger._

"He needs your help now!" Price screamed. A doctor at the end of the room stood staring off out of the window. As Price ran up to him, he turned to look at Soap. His face contorted into an expression of pure shock as he beheld his newest patient. Price shoved him towards Soap and he snapped back to his senses, gathering a cart lined with tools. He set to work on Soap as his vision faded, though he could still hear everything outside.

"Dammit!" Price swore. "We're losing him!"

"Get the pads!" The doctor ordered.

"Right!" Nikolai replied. Soap then felt two square objects touch his chest and Nikolai prepared them. "Charging; three, two, one, CLEAR!" He felt a jolt as electricity fly through his veins and his bloodstream. He jolted upright and uttered a loud scream of pain, his voice echoing and rebounding along the walls of the safe house.

**CALL OF DUTY**

**MW3**


	2. Black Tuesday

"Black Tuesday"

August 17, 10:18:09, 2016

SGT Derek 'Frost' Westbrook

Delta Force

Manhattan, New York

_Overlord was new to the job. Ever since the former Commander was killed in the blast radius of an Electromagnetic Pulse, or an EMP, he had taken up the title of 'Overlord' to the troops on the ground. He had always known that one day he would inherit the title as he was second in command to the old Commander, but he never suspected that he would begin his career staving off a Russian invasion. What he knew was that half of the United States was destroyed. Their ally fleets had been broken on the west coast and were even now in control of Los Angeles. Earlier, he had sent troops across the states to battle there and attempt to push the Russians back, but his main attention was to New York._

_ The state of the islands. The city that never sleeps. New York City was an iconic monument to America. Hell, the state was the symbol of it. Whenever one thinks of America, one of the first things that comes to mind is the massive, sprawling city of New York. Ellis Island also came to mind, the Statue of Liberty, Times Square, Wall Street. What was in New York that he could be forgetting? Ah, yes. The memorial of the Twin Towers, though other countries either did think of it or did not care for it. It was a burial ground for Americans, not for foreigners. Right now, he heard that the memorial was currently blown to pieces in the Russian Bombing Runs. _

_ The United States had pulled out of New York in only one week of fighting. The Russians knew of the importance of New York and sent their second largest fleet to Manhattan, their largest at Washington D.C. Not even the combined might of every last American soldier could hold them off from the east though, not even the west with the assistance of China and Japan. Britain had respectfully pulled out of the fighting, however, for matters in Europe's defenses. Overlord-nor the President-was particularly pleased with their decision to abandon them now that they were under attack, but they did not persist and respected their decision. After all, it was World War 3 now, wasn't it?_

_ Overlord ordered one of the men at the monitors to bring up the experimental holographic display chart. He nodded and tapped away at his computer without questions or hesitation. Overlord walked to the front of the room where a massive machine lay. It was one meter in height but in length, it was about ten meters and just the same for width. The blue checker boarded surface of the table lit up and lights began to appear above it. A massive three dimensional hologram appeared above the table as well as data scans on the areas of interest. _

_ The continents were shaded in a bright aqua-blue whereas the ocean floor was left unmapped. _Let the scientist lab rats deal with their oceanography,_ Overlord decided. The hologram zoomed in to Manhattan and a signal began to patch through. It was scratchy and nearly unrecognizable as that of a natural voice, but once the audio boosters and clearance radios began to function, the transmission came clear and through._

_ "This is Lightning 1-1 in the blind," a man yelled, panicked. "We're hit! I repeat, we are hit and going down!" Battle transmissions began to fill in as the battle progressed on the island. When requested to talk with the field commander, Overlord was met with the disappointing-and quite aggravating-response that the commander was killed several hours prior to his arrival at their new security base in Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado. _

_ Fortunately, however, the Battle Captain had survived and was now acting as the temporary field commander of the forces desperately trying to fight off the Russians in New York. When he requested contact with him, he was met with a man who sounded as though he was only a few years over his own age._

_ "What's the sitrep on New York?" He questioned the man._

_ "The Russian jamming rigs have neutralized all of the air support that you sent us sir," he replied. The entire harbor is a blood bath and Ellis Island is a freaking SAM site. Without our air support, the Russians have maintained air dominance in our sector. Without our flyboys it's a losing fight." Overlord cursed under his breath. The Russian bastards just wouldn't give up, would they?_

_ "We cannot, and we will not, lose New York," Overlord snarled. He had already commanded enough men in the past seventy seven days of his command that were dead now to give up on a mission so vital now. "Are there any special mission units in the general vicinity of the battle zone that we can request?"_

_ "Affirmative: the 75__th__ Ranger Regiment and the 2__nd__ Marines are held up further back," he reported. "But J-SOC's got a Delta Force team in Bennett Field, call sign 'METAL.'" With a quick glance to the men at the monitors, another holographic display temporarily replaced the hologram of Manhattan. Five digital photographs appeared on the screen in front of him, one of them-the largest-including a photo of a soldier pointing to something that he could not see from the angle of the photo. He was had tanned skin, a short mustache, and wore a pair of sunglasses on his face. The other men in the photo had their faces blacked out by black boxes._

_ To the left of the photo were four others, the team of Metal 0-1. Overlord noticed almost instantaneously that they all wore some type of sun glasses, though the fourth wore a pair of ridiculous goggles. The first photo was the man in the first, and largest, photo, the commanding officer of their unit: SANDMAN. The one next to him was an African American man, his nickname being TRUCK. Underneath Sandman was a thin, pale-faced man nicknamed GRINCH, and next to Grinch was another man wearing a mask over his face and some type of goggles that-in Overlord's opinion-looked utterly ridiculous on his face._

_ "Overlord," one of the men called. "Metal 0-1 is up on green SAT."_

_ "This is Sandman," one of them replied to Overlord's grim greeting. "Understand that we are OPCON to you, over." _

_ "Good, I'm glad to have you in our corner Sandman," Overlord said with a smile. The holographic display began to change and he saw the building layout of New York City. When it zoomed in on Wall Street, he noticed a large radio jamming tower placed on top of the Stock Exchange, the signals it was emitting as well as the tower itself colored a bright red hue along the blue of the buildings. "Now, for your mission: the Russians have begun to use electronic countermeasures to jam all of our known communications and guidance systems. The primary emission tower is on top of the Stock Exchange on Wall Street. I need your team to destroy it so the Air Force can begin to clear out the city. The jammer is full spectrum, so until it's down, you boys will have no radio contact from HQ. I'm sending ground assets to get your men close, over."_

_ "Copy all-we'll get it done, sir." Sandman said, and then he cut the link. Overlord hoped that he was right, and that Sandman had not just had a large amount of overconfidence embedded in his voice. Either way, they had to take New York by any means necessary._

"Frost, can you hear me?" Sergeant Derek Westbrook, AKA 'Frost', pried open his eyes. He was wondering what he was doing sleeping on metal and tried to recount the events prior. Perhaps he had been at a bar and had been drunk when he returned home? That would make sense, but then again, why was there a seat in front of him? Then he finally remembered: he was in Manhattan, New York. He was lying on his side in a turned-over Humvee.

He vaguely recalled the mission briefing that Sandman had given them. They were fighting just off the coast of the island when they were called into the heart of Manhattan to destroy a jamming tower on top of the Stock Exchange. They had hopped into their Humvees and drove off into the crumbling city, then . . . then there was a Russian with an RPG on the rooftop. It all came back in a flash as the driver screamed, "RPG! BRACE FOR IMPACT!" Then, all went silent as the Rocket Propelled Grenade impacted off of the front of their Humvee. The explosion sent them flying high into the air, and then it came to a halt as it fell to its side.

He could smell the sharp, tangy scent of smoke and charred metal and flesh. The sickening smell of blood filled the air as he looked in front of him and saw the driver. He was slumped back on the chair in front of him, a metal shard jutting out of his neck. Blood dripped down on the door below him the driver and sizzled as it burned on the hot metal below. Frost groaned and shifted in his seat, unbuckling himself from the seat. As soon as he did, he fell down the rest of the way to the metal door to his left with a loud thud.

His head throbbed in pain and he forced himself to his knees, but the metal began singe his pant leggings and burn his knees and shins, causing him to yelp in pain and scramble up the seats again. He swore and looked up in the front seat. There, another man sat in his seat, struggling with his seat belt. Finally, he drew a dagger from the sheath on his belt and cut the buckle. He restrained himself from falling by placing his right hand on the dashboard and firmly planting his feet on the floor of the Humvee. Why didn't I think of doing that? Frost thought to himself. He put a hand over his face and realized that his goggles and half of his mask were missing. He pulled down the mask so that the leather hung around his neck.

"Are you alright?" Sandman asked him.

"Yeah, just a little banged up is all," Frost replied.

"Can you still shoot?" He questioned.

"As long as I can find my rifle," Frost said flatly, searching the Humvee for his M4A1. Finally, he found it wedged underneath his seat. The magazines were lost as well, though he suspected there must be more lying on the street if he counted himself as lucky. His matte black M4A1 Assault Rifle included a grip to reduce the effects of the recoil when set into fire, three settings that allowed for semi-automatic, burst, and full automatic fire, and on the top of the rifle, a dual sight was placed.

The soldiers called the experimental sight the 'Hybrid Sight', as there had never been a sight before it. As it was set now, there was a simple holographic red dot setting for closer engagements whereas for longer range engagements, all he had to do was flip an attached ACOG sight over it. Then, he would have the advantage of accuracy, distance, and a sight that Frost actually liked.

"Get switched on," Sandman said, grabbing his own M4A1. "We've got to move now!" He nodded and climbed up the seats to the door on the right-or rather, the top in this particular situation. Strapping the M4A1 to his back, he placed a restraining hand on the seat and shoved with his left hand on the door. Adjusting his grip, he pushed it open the rest of the way and was met with the Manhattan skyline.

Then, a missile flew across the sky. Frost looked at it as it etched across the sky, watching it smash into a skyscraper nearby with a massive explosion. Another missile flew into the same part of the building, and a large section of the building crumbled and shattered, falling down to the earth below with a massive crash. Glass, metal, stone, and singed materials from the inside of the building fell to the ground below, resting in a burning heap on the street. Sandman had opened his door watched it fall as well, flinching as it hit the ground. Frost leaped to the misshapen, destroyed ground below. The wheels on the Humvee still turned aimlessly as if it were still trying to move, but it stayed in the same sideways position.

Ahead, Frost saw two more of their Delta Team picking each other up. Grinch ran up to Truck who lied motionless on the ground. For a moment, Frost's heart lurched, believing that his friend had died, but with coaxing and assistance from Grinch, he rose painfully to his feet, grabbing an M4A1 off the ground. They were all aimed with M4A1s with their own preferred sights. For Frost, he was the only one who truly enjoyed the feel of the Hybrid, whereas the rest of Metal 0-1 felt that a traditional AGOC or Red Dot was far more preferable to the experiment. Sandman fell from the Humvee in front of him, surveying the area around them as the dust fell. He unclipped a magazine from his belt and turned, tossing it to Frost. He caught it in the air, shoving it into the cartridge and tapping it a second time to ensure that the magazine was secure in the cartridge. He clicked off the safety and set the settings on the rifle to full automatic as Sandman turned to him, most likely to brief him in some different way; that was a habit of Sandman: he never seemed to think that the rest of the team could fully remember their orders, unless he was just ensuring that he knew as much as they did.

"The jammer is about five hundred meters north of here," he yelled over the missiles, gunfire, and explosions that enveloped the city. "We're going to leg from here until we can get to the objective, got it?"

"Roger that," Frost replied.

"Save that ammo of yours," Sandman said. "There should be more ammo up ahead, but keep what you have for as long as possible." Frost nodded and they advanced forward. A Striker Tank rumbled down the street, firing its massive cannons ahead as Delta Force and the 75th Battalion Ranger Regiment ran forward with them.

"Grinch, Truck!" Sandman yelled. "You guys up?"

"We're good!" Truck replied.

"Alright everyone!" Sandman yelled, trading fire with the Russians backing down the street ahead of them. "We're stuck without radio contact until that tower's down! We're not getting back up from here on in people; we're on our own! Just hit them hard and fast and we can get out of this hell-hole!" The troops replied and they began to fight further and further down the street.

RPGs flew around them, the small explosions destroying stores and small shops in the buildings around them. Rubble flew around them as they continued onward. Heeding Sandman's words, Frost only lightly feathered the trigger of the M4A1, taking precise shots at the Russians and making sure that he hit only the weak parts of their bodies, mainly their neck and head area. He would normally fire at their chests as the head and neck were both narrow and difficult to hit a times, with the vests the Russians were wearing, he would have to fire at least five bullets into their chests out of the thirty bullet magazine. That meant that unless he aimed straight and true for their heads, he was only going to be able to take care of six Russians before he ran clear out of ammunition.

The Rangers, however, were very effective at fighting and they hardly had need of fighting at all. That is, until a large Russian Armored Vehicle smashed through the blockade at the end of the street, the massive machine gun mounted on the top of the vehicle as its turret tearing into them. Frost ducked behind a smoldering police car and switched the ACOG sight of his M4A1 on. Aiming just outside of the shattered windows, he sighted the gunner and fired two shots into his head-the second just in case he moved or the slight recoil-a grip didn't siphon recoil, it simply reduced it-and luckily, his aim was true. The first bullet hit the man in the helmet, causing his head the throw back, allowing the second bullet to penetrate his skull and fly out through the back of his head.

Unclipping a fragmentation grenade from his belt, he threw the grenade under the vehicle, causing it to explode and fly into the building nearby, the glass shattering and the bricks crumbling from the force of the impact. Just as Sandman had predicted, there was a care package drop off from one of their flyboys, probably one that wasn't alive to make sure that his or her troops retrieved it. Tearing off the top of the cache, he dug inside for ammunition. He loaded in one magazine and quickly strapped five more to his belt. Suddenly, there was a massive explosion from down the street, Frost instinctively taking cover behind the cache, futile as it was to do so. Fortunately, what came down the road was not of Russian origin: a Striker and about fifteen armed and armored Navy SEALs stormed down the street. Grateful for their assistance, Frost ran forward. The Rangers and Metal 0-1, however, did not know which side they were on.

"Check your fire!" Frost yelled. "We've got friendlies!"

"That means don't shoot 'em, Grinch!" Truck said to him with a large grin on his face.

"No shit, Holmes," he replied with a scowl. Sandman hailed one of the Navy SEALs, a young man with short black hair. Frost didn't like the look on his face; he looked like someone who would lie and deceive many people.

"Name's Sandman, is this your company?" Sandman asked him. He responded with a curt nod.

"Affirmative," he responded. "I'm Sergeant Robert Bowling. I'll be-" he was cut short as a Russian ran out from behind a large pile of rubble. He carried no gun, only wielding a long, sharpened dagger. He tackled Robert Bowling and plunged the knife into his stomach. He gasped in pain but was cut short as he drew yet another knife and stabbed him through the face, his blood becoming a rotten, crimson pool underneath him. It all happened so quickly that they hardly had time to react, but when they did, it was Frost who fired at the Russian and killed him.

They looked down at the body of the Sergeant in shock and horror, but Sandman was the first to recover from the suddenness of the attack.

"Alright," he said. "Well, he's down but we're not giving up, alright?" They nodded and continued down the street with the Rangers and the Navy SEALs. In the middle of the street was a massive pile of rubble that blocked the way to Wall Street. They would have to maneuver around the cars and rocks that littered the street. Frost doubted that the Strikers would be able to scale it, but they could indefinitely turn down the street and try flanking around.

Gunfire rebounded off of the canyon-like walls of the city as machine guns mounted in windows high in the skyscrapers surrounding them began to tear into their troops. The four Deltas hid behind cover and took shots at the windows above, but the Russians usually hid behind cover before they could accurately shoot at them. Luckily, they seemed to be moving on when they saw some of their fellow Spetsnaz die at their hands.

Russians began to climb over the rubble as well, firing down from the massive, seven meter pile. Armored vehicles followed, though they were not armed with a mounted machine gun on the top. The Russians poured in, but the Strikers, the Rangers, the SEALs, and the Deltas cut them down as easily as slicing butter. That is, until the sound of propellers filled the city and a massive Russian Hind flew above the pile, firing rockets at the Strikers. Not able to take the strain of the rockets, the Strikers exploded, sending fire and metal in all directions. Some Rangers and SEALs were killed in the explosion, forcing them to fall back in a harried retreat. Sandman ordered them all to run into an office building at the right, but only Metal 0-1 made it inside. The few soldiers who tried to make it were cut down before they could even get close, leaving the survivors to stay behind.

The building shook as more bombardments ravaged the city. Frost suspected that the missiles had destroyed another building, causing rubble to fall onto the one they were taking refuge in. That still did not bode well for when they were forced to fight outside once more. The four of them shoved the massive doors of the building shut and peered out of the windows as the Hind flew off, Russians and their own soldiers once more taking the fight on the ground. They must have figured that the Hind killed them, for no one approached their building.

They walked through and Sandman stopped at a shimmering TV. It was CNN Live News, recording the battle of New York City in the harbor. How they were still alive, Frost knew not, nor did he know why in the world the United States Military allowed them to be in the harbor at all. They watched as missiles flew from battleships into the city, tearing into more buildings. Fires ignited on them as well, and a PT boat in the background exploded. A missile flew right at the camera and everything ended abruptly.

"So what's the game plan?" Truck asked.

"Same as before," Sandman replied, moving further into the building. "Find the bad guys, kill the bad guys." Truck chuckled.

"I like it," he said. The building shook more and the lights began to flicker faintly, long shadows cast over the walls and the floors. It was difficult to see but it was not impossible, allowing them to move up the staircase further into the building.

"Grinch, Truck, stay here until I give you the all clear," Sandman ordered. "Frost, you're on me."

"Rog," Grinch replied.

Frost nodded and the two formed up at the door. Sandman kicked it in and the whipped inside, taking out the Spetsnaz running down the destroyed staircase. They ran up and they approached a room that contained a massive Hind that had smashed through the wall and lied in ruins. Water pipes leaked from the walls and the floors, flooding the lower floors below them. Sandman motioned for Frost to go under the Hind while he flanked around. He nodded and did as he was ordered.

At the other side of the Hind was a second building that they had entered: a hotel. Several Russians were firing a machine gun out the window, so Frost tossed a frag grenade in their direction. They never even noticed it coming, so when they pin went off, it was already too late. Their bloodied carcasses reeked of gore as they lied, staining the floor with their blood. One of them had his left arm and legs blown off, but he was still alive despite the pain he felt and the blood that leaked from his wounds. Frost shot him through the head, killing him instantly.

Sandman used the short range radio link they had to call in Grinch and Truck. They complied and ran through the buildings to reach them. The four of them moved down through a maintenance staircase.

"Maintain the timeline," Sandman said. "We have to hit that exchange." They nodded and formed up at the bottom door. Sandman held his ear close to it and listened. "Multiple voices outside. Anyone got a Flashbang?" They shook their heads, but Frost rose with a canister in his hand.

"Got a Nine-Banger," he replied. Sandman nodded and lightly pushed the door open. Pulling the pin, he threw it in the midst of the Russians standing in the alley. Sandman slammed the door shut and a moment later, nine miniature explosions and the screams from the Russians sounded outside. The 'Nine-Banger' worked the same way as a traditional Flashbang: it blinded and deafened anyone who was unfortunate enough to be caught in the radius of it. The Nine-Banger, however, sent nine flashes and the deafening effect was far greater than before: it permanently damaged one's ear drums, possibly deafening one for life.

Sandman kicked the door and the four of them killed the seven Russians outside. Once they were sure that they were all dead, they moved up the fire escape to the next building.

"Truck, are you getting anything on your comms?" Grinch asked.

"Negative," he replied. "That jammer's got us in the dark."

"Which is why we need to hit that exchange as quickly as possible," Sandman said. They walked through a destroyed vault, Frost taking point. He looked down from the balcony above and, with wide eyes, held up a hand to silence the rest of them and telling them to get down.

"We got shooters in the bank below," Frost whispered. "Should we switch them off?" Sandman nodded and they took up positions on the balcony, aiming down into the bank. Sandman held up three fingers. He individually closed all of them and pulled down his fist, giving the signal to open fire.

The Russians were completely unsuspecting of their presence and therefore did not know where to fire when the bullets rained down from above them. Their bodies slumped to the ground as the bullets flew through them, and Sandman, Grinch, and Frost ran down the stairs as Truck maintained over-watch above them. Suddenly, he began to fire outside of the gaping hole in the front of the bank. Russians began pouring inside, firing at the four of them.

Frost hid behind cover to reload his M4A1, then flicked off the ACOG sight of his Hybrid and fired at them through his Holographic red dot. Bullets shattered the glass around them and cases were blown to pieces as they fought through the bank. When it was all over, Truck ran down with them to join the battle outside.

Grinch, however, was not so keen on leaving just yet. He shot open a case and shoved his hand inside. When he brought it back out, his hand clutched a tight wad of money. He stuffed it inside of his pocket and gave them a grin. Frost smiled and Truck laughed heartily, but Sandman gave him a mildly disapproving glare, but did not say anything as the four of them left the cover of the bank and into Wall Street. A group of Rangers hid behind cover as Russians began firing at them from the Memorial Building and from their armored vehicles. They ran over to the Rangers and Sandman began to assess the situation.

"What's the sitrep on mid-town?" He asked.

"The Russians are dug in deeper than a mole," the Ranger growled. "They're kicking our asses and we can't get through." Frost already had a good idea of how to flush them out, however, and strapped his M4A1 to his back, taking out a prototype XM25 Semi-Automatic Grenade Launcher. He hefted the massive gun to his shoulder, loaded a grenade magazine into the rear cartridge, aimed, and fired. The grenade impacted on the surface of the Humvee in front of them, obliterating it and killing the Russians nearby.

Awestruck by the force of the XM25, the Rangers gathered them up and they-with Delta Team-raced across Wall Street to the Memorial Building on the right. Several Russians were on the top of the memorial building's landing staircase, but Frost made short work of them before redirecting his attention to the main street. Two armored Humvees were parked and stationed with machine gun turrets mounted on top to tear into the Americans when they came close.

Using the attached scope, Frost fired two more grenades at the Humvees, destroying them as well. He fired yet another at the wall of the exchange, causing rubble to rain down on the unsuspecting Russians below it. As soon as the area was clear, Frost loaded the second clip into the XM25 and they ran into the stock exchange. The escalators were not functioning, so they had to run up the metal stairs to the offices above them. Unfortunately, the office was crawling with Russians who were intent on protecting the jammer from them.

It took them an excruciatingly long time, but they were able to finally clear out the cubicles and run up the new stairways to the top of the landing. Frost loaded another M4A1 magazine-his last one remaining-and climbed up the ladder to the top of the Stock Exchange. More Russians flooded the roof like a horrible infestation of bugs that refused to let down. With the help of Sandman, Grinch, and Truck, however, they were able to clear out the last Russian. Then, one tackled Grinch-and the two fell off the edge of the building many meters below.

Sandman uttered a startled cry and they raced to the edge. There, they saw the Russian falling to his death down below, but where was Grinch? They saw a hand reach up for the ledge of the building: Grinch. They pulled him up and he gasped for air as he sat down.

"That may look fun to you guys," Grinch breathed. "But it's not. It's just not fun at all." Truck laughed, getting a glare from Grinch. Frost took from his utility belt a pack of C4 and ran up to the jammer. It was emitting some type of high-pitched sound waves that buzzed in Frost's head as he got closer, but he was still able to place the charge on the side and back up to the main roof with the rest of them.

"Burn it, Frost!" Sandman ordered.

"With pleasure, sir!" Frost replied. He clicked the pin on the detonator and the tower exploded, sending charred metal in all directions. The tower leaned on its side, the metal groaning as it strained and finally crashed to the roof where it lay burning. Sandman tried contacting command to let Overlord know that the jammer was destroyed, but there was still only static. Changing channel frequencies, he attempted again, only to be met with more static.

He began to grow frustrated and tried once more to call in Overlord, but now there was something different-there was still an excessive amount of static, but now there were voices overlapping it, hundreds of voices over every known frequency channel in Manhattan. The after effects of the jammer were still in place, but now they could hear people, meaning that they now had their link with command.

"Overlord, this is Metal 0-1," Sandman said. "The jammer's smoking, over."

"Roger that, Metal 0-1," Overlord replied, his voice loud and clear over the now-cleared comm channels. "I'm sending a Black Hawk to your location."

"Copy that, Overlord. We'll be waiting for that bird," he cut the link as soon as bullets from two buildings adjacent from the Stock Exchange began to open fire on them. They hid behind the cover of the materials the Russians had moved onto the roof of the exchange and returned fire. Not wanting to use up all of his ammunition just yet, Frost used the last four rounds of his XM25 on the buildings, destroying satellite dishes on top for added ripple effect.

Then, a Hind rose above the roof of the exchange and began to target them with its machine guns, locking on with its missiles. Before it could do anything, though, a Predator missile flew from the sky and destroyed the Hind, knocking it clear out of the sky. As soon as that happened, the Black Hawk appeared. The four of them jumped on, Frost taking control of the minigun.

"Metal 0-1," Overlord called. "I have a new mission objective for your team."

"Copy that, Overlord," Sandman replied. "Go ahead and send it."

"We still have a lot of Russian rigs and battleships near our ports. We need your team to regroup and New York Harbor to hold them off."

"Copy that, we're moving in."

"Just be careful, Metal," Overlord warned. "I'm picking up Russian air signatures near your position; watch your back, over."

They complied and the pilot took off through the destroyed streets of Manhattan. Suddenly, a Hind flew from the side. Frost opened fire on it and the pilot maneuvered to get a better shot on it. It flew through the streets in supposed retreat, the pilot following close on its tail. As they rounded a bend, another Hind flew above it. The first turned around and joined the second as their Black Hawk shot forward through the streets and out of the way.

Frost continued to fire on the Hinds but they were extremely heavily armored, the bullets only leaving dents in them. He adjusted the fire to the cockpits and the propellers, giving him more success as their Black Hawk tried to escape into the abandoned construction district of the city. The first Hind exploded in mid-air and the second began to strafe around, but Frost already had a good bead on him. The second Hind's tail rudder exploded, sending it crashing to the ground far below. They rose above the construction site of a new building and they watched for any movement.

"Keep scanning your sectors," Sandman ordered. Frost looked around but saw nothing. It was all silent and clear.

"I think we lost them!" The pilot yelled, relieved. As soon as he said that, a third Hind-the exact same one that had attacked them earlier-flew up above the building and opened fire on their Black Hawk.

"Shit! Enemy Hind!" The pilot screamed. He lowered the Black Hawk in evasive action as Frost began to pour more bullets into the Hind from the minigun. Unfortunately, whoever was behind the controls of this Hind was extremely talented in flying and was able to dodge the majority of Frost's attacks. They circled each other around the building, Frost tearing through it to fire at the Hind. They once again rose above and Frost could fire at the tail rudder of the Hind. As it did, the tail propeller flew off and smashed into the main one, destroying it. It spiraled out of control-and the tail of the Hind smashed into their Black Hawk.

Frost lost his grip on the seat and hung outside as he clutched the minigun for dear life. The Black Hawk began to twist and turn out of control and Frost lost his grip, hanging only by his left hand. He looked down and saw the Hind smash into the building, blowing up and sending debris at them. Burning materials nearly hit Frost and did manage to make contact with the Black Hawk, only making its out of control tumble more insane.

"Come on you son of a bitch!" The pilot snarled as he fought to regain control of the Black Hawk. With all of his might, Frost grabbed the minigun with his right hand, and then clutched the metal bars of one of the seats with his left, pulling himself up into the Black Hawk. He nearly fell out of the other side, but he grabbed hold of the minigun just as Grinch, Truck, and Sandman held onto their seats as the pilots tried everything they knew to control their Black Hawk.

The blades of the propellers whipped the side of a building, tearing into it and breaking off small metal chunks of the propellers in the process. Then, the Black Hawk began to regain stability and rather than spinning out of control, it now stayed entirely still as the pilots cheered with grateful relief.

"Stabilization is normal," the co-pilot reported. "Fuel is up and power is functional. We're still in the air!"

"Overlord, this is Metal 0-1," Sandman called. "We're en route to the harbor now and continuing our mission, over."

"Copy that, Metal 0-1," Overlord replied. "The skies are clear and we're awaiting your arrival, out." Frost looked outside at the New York skyline, the destroyed buildings glowing like hot embers in the broad daylight and black smoke began to lift into the light blue sky.

**Hope you enjoyed.**

**Please Review.**

**-WOLF**


	3. Reveille

"Reveille"

August 17, 13:41:20, 2016

PVT James Ramirez

1st Bn., 75th Ranger Regiment

Pentagon, Washington D.C., USA

_The three of them emerged from the rubble of the Pentagon. They were battered and bleeding; one of them had their leg bandaged and was limping profusely. The other was weary and his limbs were bruised and nearly useless. The third, an African American Sergeant, was being carried limply in between them, drifting in and out of consciousness. The first with the limp was named Private Ramirez, the second, Corporal Dunn, the third, Sergeant Foley._

_ "Did I miss something?" Foley moaned, his eyes beginning to pry themselves open. Dunn and Ramirez laughed despite their predicament and they carried Foley outside of the Pentagon. There, a Black Hawk was landing, several soldiers stepping out of it to greet them._

_"We need a medic!" Dunn cried. One of them nodded and rushed to Foley's aid, only to be stopped short by another. Dunn and Ramirez looked at each other quizzically, completely stumped as to why he was stopping the medic from tending to Foley's injuries. "Hey, what's your deal? The Sarge here needs help!" The man didn't answer immediately, but when he did, it was not the answer they had hoped for._

_"My name is Lieutenant Morgan," the man said coldly. Ramirez was slightly intimidated by the mask and visor he was wearing, covering his face. All of the soldiers, even the medic, wore them. "We're from Shadow Company."_

_"We've got to get him help!" Ramirez said to Lieutenant Morgan. "If we don't, he's going to bleed to death!" The man regarded him with an expressionless face under his mask. Slowly, he began to nod in what Ramirez assumed was understanding. He raised his fist behind him, a signal to the men of Shadow Company. Ramirez blew out a sigh of relief as they circled them._

_That's when they noticed something was wrong. They aimed their M4A1s, SCAR-Hs, and ACRs at the three dumbfounded Rangers. Morgan held up his fingers, giving them another order. Gunfire lit up the outside of the Pentagon as they fired into the bodies of Sergeant Foley, Corporal Dunn, and Private Ramirez._

He hurt. It was painful to stay awake, it was painful to fall asleep, and it was painful to _be_. He could remember, though; not everything, of course, but he could remember nevertheless. He could remember sharp pain and then blackness. He remembered the possibility of help, of something that could siphon the pain from him. Eager to cease the pain, he forced his eyes to open. His eyelids would not respond, though. What was going on? Shouldn't his body respond to his commands at will? That was how it had always worked! Why not now? It took an incredible amount of willpower and unimaginable strength, but he forced-no, he _willed_-his eyes to open, despite the intense pain in doing so.

He looked up at the sky. No, it couldn't be the sky-the sky was blue at day and black at night. Why was it gray? Snow fell from the sky, but it made no sense. Snow didn't fall in August, not the middle of summer! It didn't feel like snow, either; it was warm and heavy, and it didn't disintegrate as soon as it touched his skin. In fact, it burned as it fell on his face. He shifted his head and looked to the right. The ground was buried in a thin layer of the gray snow-like material. It was all so warm and some glowed red as though there were hidden coals underneath it.

_Ash_, he realized. The material falling from the sky was a thick layer of ashes that fell from smoke that had drifted high into the atmosphere. As he lay on the ground, he examined his arms, noting that the uniform he wore was torn, burned, and bloodstained. He felt a sharp pain in his back and chest and realized that someone must have shot at him, but to no avail as the rounds did not pierce his bullet proof vest. Turning himself to his side, he placed his left hand on the ground to steady himself. He felt dizzy and the world spun around him. He held his stomach with his right hand to keep from retching, but there were no substances within his stomach that would be released. He felt sick, but there would be nothing that would come out if he tried to throw up.

After the dizziness had subsided, he placed his right hand on the ground and raised himself with his left. He now sat on his shins, though they were extremely painful, particularly his right shin. He pulled his left leg out from under him and planted his foot firmly in the ash, then rose to his feet. As soon as he did, a deep burning sensation coursed through the veins in his right leg and he collapsed with a startled cry of agony. He breathed raggedly and fresh tears fell from his eyes down his cheeks, landing in the ash in miniscule patches of dampened ash cover below him.

He looked down at his right leg and noticed that he could not feel it. His right shin legging was damp and felt warm. A crude bandage made of the sleeve of his uniform was wrapped around his leg loosely. Nervous at the thought of what he might see, he stretched forward and pulled back on the legging. His entire leg was covered in a dark layer of hardened layer of blood that turned black as it dried out. Fresh blood fell across it in a crimson pool; a deep wound caused by some type of sharp object was placed diagonally on his shin was puckering and swollen, turning a sickly yellow-gray color, green creeping in the middle. Through the blood he could see yellow-white muscle tissue beneath and even the hardened bone in the center. He felt more sick than ever and frantically slid the legging back on, He took the sleeve that he was using as a makeshift bandage and tightened it around his leg to hold off the bleeding as best as he could muster.

He fell back and his body began to shake uncontrollably, his head beaded with sweat. He realized that he had gained a horrible fever, his leg wound possibly infected. _What a horrible way to die, _he thought. In his ebbing vision, he saw a dark figure approach him. It had no features, and it had no face. It carried something in its right hand as it walked up to him. It placed the object on the ground and knelt beside him. His entire world went dark and he saw no more.

**Later**

He awoke inside of an odd construct. He felt lighter, as though he had suddenly lost thirty pounds of his total mass. He looked down at himself and realized he was only wearing a new pair of jeans and a gray t-shirt. He couldn't make sense of what was going on, and couldn't remember how he'd arrived here. He didn't even know where _here_ was, nor _what_ it was. He was lying on a padded mat in some he was in some kind of a room. He realized that it was some type of an office, though the windows were shattered and everything inside was burnt and destroyed, but all shoved against the far wall across from him.

A small fire was lit in the center of the room, the embers burning away at wood and papers. A P99 Security Firearm lay on the ground nearby. He didn't know if whoever brought him here was friend or foe, but he would not take any chances. He shifted on the matt and his leg burned. He pulled up his legging again to see if the infection was spreading, only to find that all of the blood, dried and wet, was gone, and the wound was covered by tightly bound gauze that was secured around his leg. It still hurt, but it stopped the bleeding and his fever was gone. Whoever-or _what_ever-had brought him here had revived him, but that didn't necessarily mean that they didn't have ill intentions for doing so.

He slid his hand across the floor and grabbed the P99. He shot a look outside and saw that the sky was still gray, ash still falling from the sky to the ground far below. There was a door at the end of the room where he could escape and find out where he was, so he stood up despite the pain and walked over to the door. He heard someone walking down the hall towards him. He flattened himself against the side where the door hinges connected to the wall and he waited. Every millisecond felt like an hour before someone walked inside of the office.

He roared and tackled the figure to the ground. Whoever the person was, they were far more battle-readied and up to full health than he was, so he was at a grave disadvantage. Their arm flew up and connected with his jaw, shoving him back into the wall. He was determined to not let whoever it was get another strike at him while he was at a greater disadvantage and aimed the pistol at the person. He turned and knocked the pistol from his hand, bringing up his fist underneath his jaw, then, putting him in a headlock, he threw him across the room and into the door. He fell to the ground with a heavy thud, groaning.

"What the hell is your problem?" It wasn't a man who'd attacked him; it was a _woman_. "I drag you to this outpost and fix you up and _this_ is the thanks that I get?" She pulled down a mask and removed a pair of sunglasses from her face. Her jade green eyes burned with fury. She only appeared to be about a year younger than his own twenty four years of age. She had black hair that fell down slightly past her shoulders.

"Are you deaf?" She demanded.

"No, no I'm not," he said, rising to his feet. "I didn't know where I was and I wasn't taking any chances." He looked down at her uniform and noted that she was a Marine.

"I guess I can't blame you," she replied, though her eyes still smoldered with anger as she glared at him. "What with this war going on and Russians crawling all over the country,"

"Where are we?" He asked.

"What's left of the 82nd Battalion's base," she said. "Place got bombed by the Russians early on and I thought that this would be a good place to hold out for a while."

"Where's my squad?" He asked her. "There were two others with me when we were attacked."

"I have them in different rooms; you had too much sickness on you so I couldn't put you in the same room. The other one, your Sergeant, he's in bad shape, too."

"So you were coming back from checking on them when I woke up?" She nodded a reply.

"You three have kept me on my feet for a while now," she said. "I haven't slept in days because I was afraid that if I did, one of you would die because I wasn't there to help you." She slumped down in a chair and rubbed her eyes. He realized that there were dark lines under her eyes and she looked worn and exhausted. He felt a pang of sympathy for her; she had looked after he, Dunn, and Ramirez this whole time by herself and hadn't had sleep in-wait, did she say days?

"You said that we've been here for days," he said slowly. "How long have we been out?" She breathed slowly and closed her eyes for a moment. At first, he thought that she had fallen asleep in that short time, but then straightened herself in the seat.

"The time's gotten away from me," she said at last. "I don't remember; I'd say at least three to five days. Possibly six."

"SIX DAYS!" He exclaimed. She nodded.

"Like I said, I haven't had sleep in a while because I've been too busy with you three."

"Is Dunn or Foley awake yet?"

"Ah, so those are their names. No, but if Dunn is the younger one, he's been drifting out of consciousness every so often; keeps muttering names all the time. If Foley is your Sergeant, he hasn't done a whole lot at all. He's had a bad fever that refuses to go down and I'm not sure how long he's got left if I can manage to revive him. And then there's you; at least I know I was able to save one life."

"Thanks for all you've done," he said gratefully.

"No I've got some questions for you," she said. "Who are you? What was your detachment? Did the Russians ambush you? Did-"

"Whoa, slow down," he said. "I'll answer you just be patient." She folded her arms and stared at him. Something told him that she wasn't exactly the type of person who could necessarily be called 'patient'.

"Well, it's only four in the afternoon and your friends are stable for now," she said coolly. "So we've got all afternoon for you to tell me what happened."

He nodded and began by telling her his name; it did not come easy as he had to search the furthest recesses of his mind to remember it, but he finally came across the decision that his name was James Ramirez-at least he thought it was- and told her of what they discovered in the Pentagon: that General Shepherd, the leader of the United States Military detachments, only second to their own Overlord, had betrayed them and was acting with the enemy. Strangely enough, she had already known of Shepherd's deceit and informed him that the last known intelligence they had received over the whereabouts of Shepherd was that he was listed as KIA at Site Hotel Bravo in Afghanistan.

He told her about how he discovered his family killed in his house and her eyes became misty with tears, but she blinked them away and apologized for his loss.

"My wife and I weren't that close; the only reason they were there in the first place was because my daughter loved my parents. They were in the wrong place and at the wrong time." She nodded in understanding and he continued.

He told her about the siege on Washington D.C. and how the EMP had taken out their communications and optical sights. She nodded in memory and told him that she was the only survivor of her squadron after the EMP had gone off. She had hid inside of a bank despite her Sergeant's orders to continue on. A plane crashed into a building and both it and the building came crumbling down on top of them, killing her entire squadron. She cursed herself for being a coward despite the fact that she was a Marine, but Ramirez said argued that it was not cowardice that had dictated her actions but common sense.

She nodded but still did not look very convinced. He continued to tell her about how the Rangers had captured the White House (although he used the term 'Whiskey Hotel' to explain it) and stopped the bombing run made by the Air Force flying over the east coast. They were redirected by command to the Pentagon to find survivors but only found the information on Shepherd and a bomb that had wounded Ramirez, killed the vast majority of the Russians, and trapped Dunn and Foley in the wreckage.

When they emerged from the Pentagon they were met by General Shepherd's personal men, Shadow Company. They refused to help Foley and shot at them. Luckily for them, Shadow Company had no idea that they were wearing bullet proof vests and were able to survive, only falling unconscious. With that, he concluded everything that she needed to know, only touching on the fact that they were from Hunter 2-1 in the 1st Battalion 75th Ranger Regiment. She nodded as the sun began to set-at least, the sky got darker. They wouldn't have known if the sun was setting or not; they couldn't see anything past the clouds and smoke above.

"You should get some rest," Ramirez told her. "I can go check on Dunn and Foley and-"

"No," she replied firmly. "You may feel better but I'm not going to let you go get yourself sick or hurt again. You just lie down and get some rest while I check on the others." He wanted to protest but she cut him off with a sharp glare and he nodded, lying on the mat as she left.

"Hey, I never caught your name," Ramirez said as she left.

"Claire," she replied without turning. "Private Claire Sanchez."

"Thanks for your help, Private," Ramirez said as he lied down. He was glad that she had helped them and that he had found a new ally and-possibly-a friend. Before she left he could have sworn she had smiled.


	4. Boarding Party

"Boarding Party"

August 17, 16:32:18, 2016

SGT Derek 'Frost' Westbrook

Delta Force

New York Harbor

"_Overlord, mission complete," Sandman reported. "We're heading for the harbor now. What's the objective?"_

_ "I'm going to have to delay your primary objective for the time being, Metal," Overlord replied. "Although the majority of the Russians have been beaten off of the mainland they're still trying to push forward into our lines. Russian warships are beginning to board our own carriers and battleships to launch attacks against our own fleet."_

_ "Let me guess," Truck said. "You want us to stop 'em, right?"_

_ "Putting it simply, yes; that's exactly what I need you to do," Overlord replied. "But that's not all that I need you to do. I'm directing you to the USS John F Kennedy Aircraft Carrier in particular."_

_ "I thought that was decommissioned?" Frost said, confused._

_ "It was until the war began," Overlord replied. "Now, we stocked the JFK with emergency nuclear warheads if things got to hot, and the Russians somehow figured out that we've stocked it full of them."_

_ "How did they get a hold of the launch codes?" Grinch asked._

_ "There was a breach in our national security that we didn't notice until only a few days ago when we took D.C.; one of our own officers has been feeding foreign powers our security information for years now and has had such high clearance that we never noticed it until now. I've got men in Cheyenne working on the breach but it's too late to stop the Russians if they get those launch codes. I need you to prevent the Russians from boarding it and then launch the nuclear missiles at the coordinates I'm giving you."_

_ "Sir, those warheads will go straight to Moscow," Sandman protested._

_ "That's the idea, Sandman," Overlord replied with a smirk. After all, what was the capital of Russia for the millions of people dead in America?_

_ "Alright, Overlord," Sandman replied. "We're moving out to the harbor." _

The Black Hawk shook violently as the anti-air flak smashed around them. The pilot swore as he fought with the controls of the helicopter, flying further into the harbor. Missiles and bullets flew past them, flak exploding around them and causing jarring shudders that wracked the helicopter. Only the death grip from the men inside prevented them from falling loose and into the harbor. Frost looked down at the water and noticed that there were hundreds-if not thousands-of bodies floating in the harbor, blood darkening the water around them.

Another bone-jarring explosion shook the Black Hawk again.

"That one was too close!" Sandman yelled. "Pilot, how close are we to this ship?"

"The hell if I'd know!" He replied angrily. "The fucking anti-air is giving me a hell of a time right now!" As if in response, the Black Hawk shook again, bringing forth a violent string of curses from the pilot as he maneuvered the Black Hawk to the USS John F Kennedy. The helicopter lighted down just over the charred deck of the aircraft carrier and the team leaped out onto the deck. The ship shook as something smashed into it. They fell to their knees, trying to find something to hold on to as the ship tilted sideways a bit.

The ship fell back down and they stood up back up. Frost tightened his grip on his MP5 Submachine Gun with an attached suppressor and red dot sight. They had been refitted with new kit when they were sent to the base two miles inland from the harbor. Now, they were tasked with beating the Russians off of the massive carrier. They ran across the deck past holes and broken pieces of metal as well as burning parts of helicopters, planes, and other objects lying scattered on the deck. Strangely enough, there were no Russians or Americans in sight.

Near the middle of the deck, an American battleship cruised through the harbor, firing its massive cannons into the Russian fleet. They watched it tear into a group of PT boats. Suddenly, the bridge erupted in a massive ball of flame. The rest of the battleship was obliterated in seconds, the light, sound, heat, and force of the explosion throwing them back. Two F22 fighters flew over the carrier through the smoke of the battleship, flying away to engage more of the American ships.

Frost looked back to see the ship sink into the water, burning, dismembered, and bloodied soldiers falling into water only to be crushed by falling objects as the bridge collapsed. The sight was horrifying and gruesome, but they knew that if they didn't commandeer the ship, then more atrocities such as what they just witnessed would happen. They rushed to the bridge's maintenance hatch. Truck and Grinch aimed their weapons across the deck, waiting for Russians to pop up at any moment and attack them.

Sandman shot the hinges and kicked the door in, he and Frost aiming their SMGs down the metallic halls. There was no movement, as well as very little lights inside. Frost unclipped a flashlight from his utility belt and, with a band from his belt; he strapped the flashlight to the bottom of his gun, clicking the button so the light shone down the halls. Sandman waved his hand in a slicing motion twice down the hall, signaling to move in slowly. Frost nodded and the four of them walked carefully through the halls.

There was a metal grated staircase to the right, leading up to the bridge. Grinch walked up the stairs, walking on his toes as to limit the sound on the loud stairs. They followed up behind him and went up several floors until they reached the final door to the bridge's control room. Frost leaned back against the door, and then kicked it inward. They whipped inside and aimed their weapons inside the bridge, the light from the daylight outside illuminating the bridge. Frost clicked off the flashlight and swept the room with the others, finding no one and nothing.

"I don't get it," Frost said. "HQ says the Russians are taking the ship but there aren't even any Russians."

"Yeah," Truck agreed. "And where the hell is the crew?" That was definitely something to think about; there was no bullet holes, scorch marks, blood stains…_nothing_. Sandman walked up to one of the consoles at the head of the bridge, tapping buttons into the keyboard. He took off his radio and broke off the back panel, connecting the wires inside with the wires in the console. Frost didn't think it was necessary to amplify the signal like he was attempting, but when he himself tried to call in Overlord, there was only static.

"What gives?" Grinch asked, noticing the problem as well. "We already burned that jammer, shouldn't we have radio communications?"

"There's too much interference in the area," Sandman replied. "Everyone from both sides are trying to call in to hundreds of places at once, most of them not just short range. I'll have to pick up another radio once we get off the ship." With that, he began to type in the codes for command in the main console.

"Overlord, this is Metal 0-1," Sandman called. "We are now at Zulu Niner Oh-Seven-Seven. There is no sign of the Spetsnaz and no crew, over." There was no immediate response, only the crackle of static over the comms. "Overlord, this is Metal 0-1; we are now at Zulu Niner Oh-Seven-Seven. There is no sign of any Russian invaders or American crew members aboard the ship. Do you copy, over?"

"Me—0-1, do you-E-resid-er?" Overlord replied over the static.

"Overlord, we cannot understand you," Sandman replied. "Please repeat, over."

"Metal 0-1," Overlord said, his voice sounding strained. "The signal isn't going to last long; we're getting messages from across the country and even Mexico and Canada. We're getting you. Now, is there and EX residue in the area, over?"

"Not that we've seen, sir," Sandman replied. "We've only just arrived on the ship and reached the ship."

"I need you to check the rest of the ship before you send it out; make sure there are no more Russians onboard or they'll just redirect it back to the harbor."

"Roger that, Overlord," Sandman said. "We'll get it done." With that, he cut the link and set the radio down on the console. "Truck, got any of those Bettys?" He nodded and from his pack, he took out a small, circular device with a spiked rotor in the middle. As they left, Truck set down the Bouncing Betty (a mine that flew high into the air and exploded in a mass of fire, light, and shrapnel) in front of the bridge as they ran down the stairs and into the bowels of the ship. The crates in the bay lied stacked on top of each other, large missiles lying in the center in holding bays.

They walked through the large bay, aiming their rifles and SMGs down the rows of crates, watching for any kind of movement in the general area. As they walked deeper into the ship, they found themselves in the mess hall.

"Holy shit," Truck breathed.

"This is fucked up," Frost said.

"Got that right, bro," Grinch replied.

"This is why the Russians need to die," Sandman growled. The mess hall was most literally a mess; the corpses of the crew and soldiers lied stacked inside, blood and gore lying on the metallic ground, slipping and oozing on the ground.

"Best thing we can do for them now," Sandman said, lighting a cigar from his pocket and tossing it into the massacre. The bodies began to ignite, the sticky blood acting as though it were gasoline and adding to the force of the ignition. With heavy hearts and minds set for revenge, they set out towards the bridge. A bullet suddenly whizzed past Frost's face as a Russian fired an AK74u Submachine Gun. They dove for cover behind the crates as Russians poured into the ship.

Frost lowered his head just enough so that he could see the Russians, only to get his helmet shot clear off of his head. He jerked back, his heart pounding and blood roaring in his ears. He couldn't see them, but they could see him. He quickly turned the safety back on his MP5, and then he held it by the barrel and dragged his helmet back towards him with the butt of the SMG. Luckily, helmets were bullet proof against nearly every type of bullet save for saber rounds, armor piercing rounds (which were very rare and extremely expensive as well as saber rounds), and high velocity rounds fired from a turret, sentry gun, or airborne vehicles.

Luckily for them, there were none of the above in the ship, and his helmet only suffered a mere white scratch on the formerly beige helmet. Frost unclipped a 9 Banger and tossed it down below. After the nine explosions went off (that were far louder as they echoed throughout the ship) he placed his helmet on his MP5 and cautiously held it out of cover. A bullet flew right into the helmet, knocking it off the gun. Then, Frost slumped down, draping his arm over the railing. His plan worked so well that even Sandman thought he was truly dead; luckily, he couldn't reach him, else his plan would be foiled. Frost was positioned in just the correct position to see what was going on in the hangar.

The Russians were hiding behind the missiles and in the rafters above them in holdout positions. The Russians had diverted their attention from him and were firing now at the rest of the Deltas. Frost crawled across the walkway and around the crates, flanking the Russians from behind. When he finally he a good view of them, he raised his MP5 to the rafters and fired at the Russians above them. They fell to the ground from high above and smashed into the ground in bloody heaps. The Spetsnaz in front of them either did not notice, or thought that they were killed by the rest of Frost's men. Unclipping a fragmentation grenade, he cooked it for approximately two standard seconds, and then threw it at the group below. Frag grenades had a detonation timer of precisely five seconds, allowing the last three to reach them in time. It was risky to throw explosive ordinance so close to nuclear missiles, but it was a risk that he unfortunately had to take. Besides, the missiles were not activated yet.

One of the Russians screamed something in their native tongue as he noticed the frag grenade, but it was already too late for them. The grenade exploded and one of the missiles fell to the ground, leaning against the walkway adjacent from the one he was on. The Russians were all killed in the blast, save for one who was clutching his severed leg, screaming bloody murder at the top of his lungs. Frost walked up to him and fired a round clear through his skull, the man's body slumping lifelessly to the gore-strewn, bloodied ground.

"Star!" Sandman yelled.

"Texas!" Frost replied, jogging up to them. All three of them were both surprised and relieved at the presence of Frost.

"But-but I thought that you-" Sandman stammered.

"You know that old saying for tests, 'when in doubt, choose C?'" Frost asked. They nodded. "Well, in war, it works somewhat differently: 'When in doubt, play dead.'" Sandman laughed and hit gave the order for them to move out through the rest of the ship and get to the bridge. They did so, running up the stairs to find the bodies of three Russians at the top.

With a new sense of urgency now that they knew that the Bouncing Betty had detonated, they rushed to the top. Frost tossed his second-to-last 9 Banger inside the bridge and they heard the screams of Russians inside as they were caught in the blast radius of the canister. They rushed in and cut down the last of the Russians inside. Blood splattered on the windows as bullets tore through flesh and bone, forcing them to shoot them so they could see what was going on outside. They were met with another American battleship exploding and sinking below the surface of the harbor.

Truck walked towards one of the consoles and began to man the guns on the deck of the ship. There were AA emplacements positioned at tactical advantages across the deck, allowing them to fire at the Russian bombers and fighters.

"Frost, I'm going to need your help for this," Sandman called. Frost ran up to the main console where Sandman was. "We need to get this ship just outside of the harbor and then fire the missiles in the deck."

"If we fire them, though," Frost said worriedly. "That last one will explode inside of the ship."

"Which is why it's just outside of the harbor, so that the blast radius engulfs the Russian fleet; we're on the defensive right now so the Russians will be the only ones who are affected. Now, do you think you can drive this thing?"

"If it's a question as to if I can go without crashing this thing," Frost replied. "There's about a fifty-fifty chance that we won't end up sinking ourselves."

"I'll take that chance, as long as you can get this thing out of the harbor." Frost nodded and stared at the console. He had commandeered many ships before the war, but nothing close to the sheer massiveness of this. If he could possibly get the ship to get out of the harbor and fire the missiles in a way that they wouldn't be killed, it would be a miracle.

"Alright, I need to find some kind of a valve or switch that will turn this thing around one hundred sixty five degrees on the dot." Frost said. Sandman nodded and ran to another console-the navigation computer-and typed in numbers and coordinates inside. The ship began to hum and vibrate as it turned from the main battle and out towards the open ocean. At the back of the harbor was a ring of Russian warships circling them.

"Truck, override the controls on all of the cannons, AA turrets, and SAM turrets to direct their line of fire at the fleet!"

"On it!" Truck replied, rushing to one of the consoles.

"Grinch, I need you to access to missile bay," Frost said. "I need you to type in the precise coordinates of Moscow into the computer for the missiles to be launched, but don't fire them until I give the order." Grinch nodded as they went to work on the ship.

Frost walked over to the communications channel and called in their Black Hawk.

"Echo 2-2, this Metal 0-1," Frost said. "I'm requesting for an immediate extraction just outside of New York Harbor, ETA five minutes."

"Roger that, Metal!" The pilot replied. "We're just watching the fireworks from up here!"

Frost hung up on the radio and took the traditional wheel on the main console in the center of the bridge. The turrets began to fire at the fleet, destroying the ships as they increased speed. The ships began to open fire on their carrier, but Truck came through with them by activating the universal Trophy System that deployed an explosive and bullet resistant shield around the bridge, keeping them safe for the time being.

Frost forced the lever on the console up until the ship was flying at full speed through the harbor. One of the Russian ships exploded and toppled on its side as it took fire from the carrier. Another battleship began to slice through the water toward them, though, and their ship was not fast enough to escape them.

"Grinch set the missiles to launch in exactly two minutes!" Frost ordered. "Echo 2-2, get here now!" The pilot complied and the four of them rushed from the bridge to the main deck. The Black Hawk hovered above them, but before he could land, the ship lurched as the Russian battleship smashed into them. The ship began to tip to its side, but Echo 2-2 wasn't going to stand for that. The pilot fired several heat-seeking missiles at the bridge and engines of the ship, obliterating it and a massive ball of fire and shrapnel. The carrier settled back in the water and the Black Hawk touched down. They leaped on board and Frost screamed at the pilot to get them as far away from the ship as possible. The deck began to open up and the first missile fired to Russia. The second did as well as did the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth.

"Faster!" Frost yelled. "We've got to get out of here now!"

"This bird doesn't go any damn faster!" The pilot retorted. Suddenly, there was a massive red light from behind them. Frost looked outside and saw the USS John F Kennedy explode, taking half of the Russian fleet with it. The entire ocean turned into a massive fiery mushroom cloud as the nuclear warhead detonated inside. Their mission was complete, and it was time to take New York back.


	5. Hunter Killer

"Hunter Killer"

August 17, 17:24:39, 2016

SGT Derek 'Frost' Westbrook

Delta Force

New York Harbor

"_This is Lightning 3-1," an F18 pilot reported. "Our guidance systems are back online and we're standing by with a full payload of JDAMs. I'm requesting clearance, over."_

_ "Lightning 3-1, you are cleared to engage hostiles and commence your bombing run." Overlord replied. _

_He was exhilarated now that the battle was turning in their favor. For over three months since the first invasion force arrived, America and Russia had been battling for control of New York, and now it seemed as though they were finally going to beat the Russians off of their ports. He examined the large holographic display in front of him, surveying the triangular blips that rocketed for the buildings of the city. _

"_Breaking the hard deck," the pilot said. "T.O.T. five seconds. Weapons away." The blips moved forward and from each one of the F18s, two smaller red blips flew forward into the SAM turret and short range jammer emplacements on the buildings of the city. _

_The blips moved further into the city and small, red circles flew from the back of the F18s on top of Russian military bases, annihilating the soldiers and the vehicles within them. At Overlord's request, several real time overhead images and video footage from the Predator feed appeared to reveal what the damage had wrought. The buildings were smoking and some began to crumble to the ground far below, covering the streets with rubble. _

"_Sir, it appears that all sites have been neutralized," one of the monitors reported._

"_Alright," Overlord replied. "Good work, Metal 0-1. We've regained air dominance over Manhattan and pushed the front line to the river. The warhead caused a lot of damage but it was just out of range of the main battle that it only took out the ends of the Russian reinforcement fleet."_

"_So, what's our next target?" Sandman asked. At Overlord's second request, the hologram shifted to the underwater terrain where a holographic image of a submarine appeared._

"_The Russian Command vessel is an Oscar Two submarine carrying enough cruise missiles to level the entire eastern seaboard. You're men are going to have to move fast before the Russians resort to drastic measures and launch a counter attack."_

"_Roger that, Overlord," Sandman replied. "What's the mission, though?"_

"_It's simpler than you'd think: I want you to infiltrate the vessel, secure the bridge, and turn their warheads against their own fleet. I'm sending in a SEAL detachment to back you up for this one. Good luck men, Overlord out."_

"_Alright, kit up boys!" Sandman told his men._

"_Where's the infil point?" Grinch asked._

"_The Brooklyn Battery Tunnel," Sandman replied._

"_Didn't that place get bombed?" Frost asked._

"_Yes," Sandman said._

"_I thought it collapsed," Truck said._

"_Yeah," Sandman replied. "It did."_

The darkness of the flooded tunnel absorbed Frost in shadowy clutches. He held onto a small submersible vehicle that allowed him to navigate through the water at high speeds. The only light in the tunnel was the dim, blue glow of the radar on the base of the submersible, though it was still shrouded in darkness. The cold of the deep ocean water froze Frost's body as he floated near motionlessly in the collapsed Brooklyn Battery Tunnel.

There was an irregular shift in the water as something moved past him. He couldn't tell what it was through the dark, but the radar detected another submersible device highlighted in green. Sandman drifted past him, then halted the trajectory and stopped. A few heartbeats later, yellow, smothered sparks began to fly as he used a water-proofed welding rod to cut through the metal grating that held rigidly in their path, blocking their access to the harbor. The sparks did not fly far, only a few centimeters-possibly _millimeters_-as the water quickly doused the sparks. The light lightly illuminated the tunnel and Frost could make out Sandman's form as well as Tuck and Grinch behind them.

Sandman slowly cut a large circle from the grate, his movements sluggish as the water slackened his movements. The welding rod emitted a low, deafened fuzzing sound in the water, the process of cutting through the grate taking nearly fifteen minutes. When his tool finally connected with the other end of the cut, the grate made a high pitched clanging sound. Sandman switched off his welding rod and clipped it onto his utility belt. He grasped the grate in his hands and shoved in forward and into the darkness of the tunnel. He then grabbed the submersible and turned to look at them, switching on his underwater radio communication link embedded in his breath mask.

"Stay together," Sandman said. "It's easy to get lost down here."

They nodded and followed him through the large hole. The right of the tunnel was caved in, leaving them with the right. They turned on the main propellers, taking them through an easy cruise through the dark water. As they advanced, the natural light from the sun began to seep through the water and show up from the cracks and holes in the ceiling of the tunnel.

That light, however, presented them with a grizzly sight: bodies. Tens to hundreds of lifeless bodies floated inside of the submerged tunnel. Civilians ranging from men, women, and children floated around the cars in the tunnel. The glass windows and windshields were destroyed as the pressure of the water caused them to collapse, drowning anyone who might have survived the initial bombing strikes from the Russians when they attacked New York. There were unnatural currents of dark color in the water, and Frost believed at first that it was oil. He realized that it was blood from the bodies.

"Damn," Truck said. "Do you think anyone made it out?"

"Even if they did," Frost replied. "It's too late to help them now."

It was a grim, solemn moment as they drifted past the bodies and wrecked cars. The tunnel curved up and to the right, ending in a destroyed, torn opening that allowed them to see the blue water of the open ocean. Light penetrated the water around the ships above, large shadows beaming down from the light. Four more submersibles shot up beside them, piloted by NAVY SEALs. Following Sandman's instruction and lead, the eight soldiers took hold of the levers on the right of the submersibles and shoved them forward, activating the maximum support thrusters on the sides of the submersibles and allowing them to fly effortlessly through the water, the pointed front of the submersibles cutting through the water like a knife through butter.

There was a bright burst of light from above them and Frost looked up to see another US Battleship explode and sink into the harbor, the metal cracking and tearing as the hull broke apart. They directed their submersibles down and sped under the waste pipes on the floor. It began to grow darker, so Frost activated the frontal headlights on the submersible.

"The sub's moving fast," one of the SEALs said. "Our intercept window is closing fast."

"Roger that," Sandman replied. "Taking point, move up."

Frost saw a large, spiked red ball attached to a thick, metallic chain.

"Mine to the right!" He reported. "Move around it!"

"Copy that, diverting course." Sandman replied. They swam around it and continued on. More of the mines appeared through the darkness as they continued deeper into the harbor. Then, there was a massive bang and an aircraft carrier began to sink in front of them. Two torpedoes flew over them and smashed into the aircraft carrier, causing more massive explosions to ripple across the surface. Sandman ordered them to power down their submersibles and waited in the water.

More and more torpedoes impacted on the metal deck and tore the carrier to pieces, the explosions shooting soldiers upward or killing them instantly. A few lucky ones managed to swim to the surface. For a long moment, nothing happened. It was silent in the harbor's waters, the wait seeming like hours. Then, a large, red, rectangular shape appeared on the radar of Frost's submersible. He looked around but did not see anything. Another two torpedoes flew forward and curved up and into a Battleship, destroying it as well.

Then, out of the darkness, a massive submarine shot over their heads. It was nearly one hundred meters in length and twenty in width, loud sound waves echoing around them as the sub went past. The end of the submarine appeared and boasted the propellers of the submarine. A large rear fin at the back rested between the six propellers.

The sub began to slow to a halt to readjust its directional vector, allowing them to turn their power back on and swim up to the sub. From his side, Frost drew a C4 explosive pack. Technically, it was an I.E.D. (Improvised Explosive Device) that allowed for high powered underwater explosives, sticking capabilities even in water, and was effectively the strongest form of explosives in the world. Now, they were going to use them to critically damage the submarine. He swam up to him and stuck the C4 to the rear fin.

On the center of the metallic pack there was a knob. He turned the knob to the right and clicked a small button that blinked red as it activated. He shot it at full speed as the C4 began to activate and the bomb began the process of explosion. Suddenly, the I.E.D.s exploded and large, red flashes flew off of the sides of the sub. The metal groaned as the bombs tore at the sub. Frost looked back to see the sub's destruction.

"Overlord, this is Metal 0-1," Sandman reported. "The Russian Command submarine is surfacing and we're commencing with the assault."

"Roger that, 0-1," Overlord replied. "Continue to the primary objective and take control of the sub's missiles." With that, they let go of their submersibles, allowing them to drift off into the water. Frost looked up at the shimmering blue surface water and kicked forcefully into the water, using his arms to cut through the water. He swam up and broke through the water where he was met with the Manhattan skyline. Two missiles flew forward and smashed into one of the buildings, the middle section of it collapsing and falling down into the city below.

The fleets tore each other to shreds and blew up, the ships sinking and burning. Men screamed as they were shot and shot back at the Russians. Suddenly, there was a great ripple in the harbor and the metallic surface of the submarine surfaced, spraying water in all directions. Frost shielded himself with his hand, though his underwater goggles kept the water away from his eyes. As the submarine halted, he saw the rest of the men surface.

Frost swam over to the submarine and walked up on top of it. He took off his swimming fins, breathing apparatus, goggles, and oxygen tank, letting them lie on the deck. He drew his MP5 with a suppressor and red dot sight and stalked up the deck with the others at his heels. Once they reached the top, they saw several armed Russian engineers running towards them, probably to assess the damage to the submarine. They raised their weapons and fired at them, cutting the Russians down. A hatch at the top opened and a Russian clambered out, looking the opposite way and therefore was unaware of the threat.

Frost grabbed him from behind and dragged him out, shoving a dagger in his armpit. He jerked and blood gurgled in his mouth, then he died. Frost and the rest of the men looked around the deck for any sign of more Russians, but it appeared to be clear. Sandman called Frost over to him and asked for a frag grenade. He tossed him one from his utility belt, pulled the pin, and tossed it down the hatch. They backed up from the hatch as the frag went off and destroyed the inside of the sub.

"What are we up against?" Frost asked him.

"At least one hundred hostile forces between us and the command bridge," he replied. "Automatic and semi-automatic weapons, laser designator sights, probably smoke grenades as well. No explosives though; any explosion inside could rupture the surface and sink it, so all we can do is use frame charges to breach, no frags or 9-bangers. It's too risky."

"Roger that," Frost said. With that, Sandman cautiously put one foot on the rung of the ladder and slowly lowered himself inside. When he was about half way down, he slid the rest of the way down and called for Frost to follow. Frost did just as he did and followed him to a blackened door. Sandman gripped the valve on the door and twisted it, opening the door.

They ran inside, Frost taking the front and Sandman taking the right. He turned to the right and went down the stairs. A Russian flew into the open doorway. Frost raised his gun to fire upon him, when Sandman ran at him and kicked him in the face, his head smashing into the wall and blood flying from the back.

"Stairs clear!" Sandman said. Frost nodded and ran after him through the sub. The engine maintenance room was beginning to flood over, engineers working frantically to stop the flow of water inside of the sub. They fired their MP5s at the Russians as they were unaware to their presence, allowing them access through the sub. A Russian ran down the stairs at Frost, wielding a Striker shotgun with an attached grip and extended magazines strapped around him.

Before he could strike Frost with the butt of the weapon, he tackled the man and shoved him into the stairs. He brought the MP5 up under the man's chin and fired a bullet through his head. He twitched and slumped down to the stairs. Frost reloaded his MP5 and strapped the submachine gun to his back, and then he took the Striker and the ammunition from the body of the man and stalked up the stairs. Sandman walked up from the adjacent stairway and stared quizzically at the Striker.

"Where'd you get that?" He asked.

"Must be close to my birthday," Frost replied. "The guy just gave it right to me."

Sandman gave a smirk-smile and they continued further into the sub. As they rounded a bend in the metallic halls, they came across the missile maintenance bay. Unfortunately, the engineers in the missile bay were armed with SMGs. Lasers flashed and glared through the steam and smoke of the bay, allowing the Russians to see them but they had a far more difficult time finding them. Bullets flew around the bay, but the Russians were being extremely careful as to not hit anything critical.

Frost and Sandman didn't want to either, as it would kill them as well as the Russians, as well as failing to fire the missiles at the rest of the Russian fleet. They took cover behind the ventilation shafts, forcing the Russians to move around them as to not puncture the shafts. Frost leaned out and fired seventeen bullets into the nearest Russians, cutting down three of them. With the coast clear, Frost and Sandman ran through the gunfire down the now cleared ramp. They rushed up the stairs into the next area of missile maintenance. This time, however, they were forced to take care of all the Russians before they could continue on to the bridge.

They ran up the stairs to the next door, but the valve was sealed tight. They tried shooting the hinges of the door, but they held tight.

"Alright, let's get a frame charge on this door," Sandman said. Frost nodded and they stuck two red poles to the sides of the door. Taking out a wire, they connected the two rods and opened a panel on the surface of the two. They activated the charges, shut the panels, and Sandman detonated the charges. The door exploded and flew inward.

Frost wielded his Striker and whipped inside, firing at the men around the bridge. One of them rushed him with a dagger, but he fired the shells into his chest, causing him to fly backward and slam onto the metal deck. They examined the bridge and stared at the holographic displays and electronic screens around the room. There were targets on the displays for the submarine to fire at.

They ran over to the main control scheme at the far end of the room, examining the layout of the terminal.

"Overlord, this is Metal 0-1. I send checkpoint Neptune, over." Sandman reported as the two searched for the code transfer. When they found it, Sandman took a key from the belt of one of the engineers they'd killed.

"Roger that, 0-1," Overlord replied. "Copy Neptune."

"I have the missile key and I'm accessing the launch codes now," Sandman reported, taking out the key.

"Copy that, Metal," Overlord said. "The grid coordinates are as follows: Tango Whiskey zero five six six two eight. Do you got it?"  
>"Affirmative, we're firing on the Russian fleet in sixty seconds!" Sandman replied. "Frost, get on the console over there!" Frost did as he was told and ran over to the end of the console terminal towards a small panel on the side. Sandman tossed him the key and he inserted it into the console. Sandman injected his inside the console, too.<p>

"Alright, on my mark," Sandman said. Frost nodded. "Three, two, one, TURN!" They twisted the keys in the terminal, allowing the panel to flip open, exposing a large red button. They punched it in and sprinted to a ladder in the center of the room.

They ran into the bright sunlight of the day, several Little Birds and V-22 Osprey Gunships flying overhead. The battle had escalated and now gunfire and explosions flew around the area. They ran to the side of the sub where two Zodiacs were resting in the water. The second was empty, but the first contained Truck and Grinch, beckoning them to the second one frantically. Sandman slid into the front while Frost took the wheel in the back. The silo doors on the submarine began to open and klaxon alarms began to scream from the sub. Frost ignited the engine and sped forward behind Grinch and Truck's Zodiac. Then, the missiles began to fire into the sky, the entire harbor glowing yellow-orange from the exhaust couplings and engines on the bottoms of the missiles.

They shot forward as the missiles flew up, and then arched down in a trajectory that would shoot them right at the Russian fleet. They sped between two battleships, one an American ship, the other belonging to the Russians on their left. A missile flew right into the Russian submarine and tearing through the hull, emitting a massive explosion that caused a miniature tsunami between the ships, ending their battle but tossing the Zodiacs around. The waves smashed against the American Battleship, tipping it slightly before it regained its stability whilst the Russian ship sank into the harbor.

They sped further into the harbor, more and more of the missiles crashing into the ships and obliterating them. Waves made them fly up into the air and smash back into the water, spraying water all around them and soaking their uniforms as well as temporarily blinding them. The Russian fleet began to crumble under the might of its own WMDs (Weapons of Mass Destruction), the Americans gaining a stronger foothold in the battle. They sped alongside a sinking aircraft carrier when suddenly, something smashed into them, sending them up the metal deck of the ship. Frost's ears split as he heard the propellers of the Zodiac grind against the deck.

To their left, a large Russian PT Boat sped alongside them, bullets flying from their AK47s and AK74us as they tried to stop their quarry. Frost noticed more of the underwater mines at the rear of the boat, ready for immediate deployment into the frigid waters of the New York Harbor. Frost grabbed his Striker and-taking careful aim-fired three shots at the mines. The shells impacted on their sensitive surface and annihilated them, destroying half of the PT Boat as well, sending it flying into a Russian ship just as a missile hit it.

Frost twisted their Zodiac left and off of the deck, curving around the aircraft carrier. A squadron of Hinds flew above them, chased by F22 Fighters and a V22. They maneuvered around the wrecked battle zone that the harbor had become as the missiles destroyed ship after ship. They flew through an old docking structure and jumped over a piece of the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel jutting out of the water. The Zodiac crashed into the water again, the nose slightly going under the water and drenching them with more of the salty water.

Ahead, two Chinooks hovered over the water. Grinch and Truck flew into one and it took off, the second waiting for them to get inside.

"There's our ride!" Sandman cried over the gunfire, explosions, and the water around them. "Punch it!" Frost complied and sped up the Zodiac, sending them flying into the open bay of the Chinook. He immediately cut the power and helped push the Zodiac further inside. The Chinook took off into the New York skyline, allowing Sandman and Frost a view of the crumbling city.

"Overlord, this is Metal 0-1," Sandman reported into his radio. "Our mission is complete! We've taken New York!" Frost couldn't help but grin with Sandman at the wonderful news; they'd won the battle for their nation, and now they could take the battle directly to the Russians.

"Roger that, Metal 0-1," Overlord replied. "We are beginning to launch our counterattack to Russian territory. Outstanding job, gentlemen!"

"All in an easy-day's work, sir," Sandman replied. The Chinook flew in front of the Statue of Liberty, the massive structure missing parts of its copper plating and small fires burning at it, but the monument to America stood strong and proud amongst its burnt island home. America would not die today; no, it would live to fight again.

Frost sat down on the ramp and watched as F22s and F18s screeched overhead, flying into the city and above the annihilated Russian fleet. The battle for New York was over. Now, the true fight would begin when they launched their invasion on Moscow. Frost ejected his magazine from his MP5 and loaded in a fresh one, as well as loading the Striker with more shotgun shells. The fight was on.

**I'd just like to apologize for the excruciatingly long period of time that it took me to update this story guys! I've been getting a lot of tests and exams are only two weeks away so things have been getting really busy for me. I'll make sure to update at least two or three more times this weekend if I get the chance (even if I have to stay up all night to do so) and continue this story!**

**Just to recap, on February First, I turned 15 years old! I received the best movie of all time, Battle: Los Angeles, a ton of iTunes cards (because who doesn't love music?), some new books, and Battlefield 3 for my Xbox. All of them are extremely great, but I have to say that BF3 only has good multiplayer. The campaign is spot on EXACTLY like Call of Duty: Black Ops' campaign with different characters. I only played it again for the achievements, but the campaign just flat out SUCKED. Aside from that, the online competitive multiplayer is very entertaining and I say the game is just as good as Modern Warfare 3, only MW3 had a way better storyline than the copy that BF3 had. Anyhow, make sure to review and comment on how I'm doing so far! **

**-WOLFXVSLAYER667 **


	6. Ashes

"Ashes"

August 18, 13:41:32, 2016

PVT James Ramirez

Hunter 2-1 Actual

Former 82nd Marines Barracks, Washington D.C., USA

_/ / / Attention all survivors of the invasion / / /_

_/ / / Ash fall from the fire is becoming increasingly dangerous and you are recommended by the highest authority to exit any and all buildings that you may reside in / / /_

_/ / / Ash is extremely volatile and dangerous, able to take down the strongest of structures with only a few inches of it built up / / /_

_/ / / If you can acquire a mask or cover of some sort, it is highly recommended that you use that as to prevent too much inhalation of the ash / / /_

_/ / / Emergency evacuation and first aid helicopters are being mobilized to search for survivors / / /_

_/ / / Make way for the heart of the United States; the fighting is less extreme there and we can find you easily / / /_

_/ / / Message repeats / / /_

Ramirez awoke to the dark, gray stone of the ceiling. It took him a while to figure out what where he was, but a rush of memories allowed him access to those questions. He looked around the small, dilapidated room but did not see any sign of Sanchez. Figuring he must be checking on Dunn and Foley, Ramirez stood up from the sheets he was using as a makeshift bed and stretched his tired and sore limbs. Dust fell from the ceiling onto Ramirez's face, and he began to stifle a sneeze that he knew would come. Instead, nothing happened.

Quizzical, he stared at the ceiling to be met with a massive spider web system of cracks above him. He couldn't believe that he could have possibly missed that detail of the room, but he did all the same. More dust fell from above, and he outstretched his hand to catch it. He examined it and noticed that it was exceptionally warm and looked like small flakes of white, black, and gray. He realized that it was ash falling from the ceiling.

He briefly recalled his lessons in his freshmen year of High School in his Earth Science class-which he aced, as he had with all of his other classes of course-that explained the composition of ash. They were small particles of rock in actuality, and could bring down entire buildings with only a few mere centimeters on top. He looked out the shattered window and saw at least seventeen inches of ash, and it was still falling as though it was a demonic blizzard.

Not bothering to worry if the ash was too much on the strain of the building, Ramirez stood up and searched for the gray t-shirt he was wearing the previous day. He found it crumpled in the corner, so he donned the shirt and exited the room to explore the base. Although they were all still recovering, there was still a war going on out there and if he could help it, he had to find some way to contact command and call for an evac. The stone halls were vacant and contained an air of darkness and nothingness.

He walked down the hall, peering into the rooms around him. They were bombed out and in various states of disrepair. This was formerly a thriving base for the Marines, and now it was a haunted shell of its former military glory that it once possessed. He rounded a corner, taking the right and walking down the hall. He still did not find the rooms that Foley and Dunn were in, and he realized just what Sanchez meant when she said that the three of them were keeping her on her feet.

As soon as she came to mind, Ramirez's mind filled with questions: How did she survive? How did she discover everything that Shepherd did and manage to find out about his ultimate demise in the end? These questions and countless others raced through Ramirez's mind, but he quickly diminished them as they were not important at the moment. What was important was to find Sanchez, Dunn, and Foley so they could find a communications array of some sort and call in assistance from command. After at least an hour of searching, he saw a dark figure at the end of a long hall, only a silhouette outlined against the pale white-gray light from the outside. The figure carried a rifle.

Darting behind a wall, he frantically searched for anything he could use as a weapon if the figure came too close and got him within gun range. He bent over and searched for a rock of some sort that he could use to bash in their skull if need be, and found a decently sized rock lying against the wall. He hefted it in his right hand and hid just out of view behind the wall. He stared at the wall in front of him and saw the shadow of the figure draw closer and closer, until he saw its full form. He rammed his shoulder into it and rammed it against the adjacent wall. He kept it pinned by the neck with his left arm, drawing back his right to bash in its face when he felt a fist connect under his jaw. He fell back with a grunt and lost his grip on the rock.

The figure attacked him by grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him to his feet. Before he could do anything, however, he felt a swift kick between his legs. His eyes bulged and he groaned in extreme pain. The attacker kicked him there three more times, and then drew back and their fist connected with the side of his face, sending him sprawled against the wall. Through the excruciating pain, he was still able to fight-barely.

Before he could do anything though, it drew a knife from its sheathe and prepared to stab at him. Then, there was a gunshot that rang through the halls and blood spurted from the attacker's hand that clutched the knife. It screamed in pain as it was barreled to the ground, and he saw Sanchez turn a SCAR-H on the man and fire three shots into his exposed chest. He flinched and shuddered, then died. Ramirez was gasping for breath and Sanchez's eyes were wide in shock. She looked over at him and held out a hand. He gratefully accepted her help and stood up, but the pain was almost unbearable and he had trouble doing so.

"I leave for two minutes and you're already getting yourself into trouble, huh?" Sanchez chided. He was a bit annoyed that she was acting mother-like in this kind of a situation.

"At least you got here in time," Ramirez replied, but there was something quite different about his voice that he couldn't recognize. It was higher pitched scratchy, as though he was an adolescent teenager going through puberty. _Must be a side-effect to his blows at my-._ He couldn't finish the though, though, as he saw Sanchez's face contort in an odd expression. She held a hand over her mouth and closed her eyes, her body shuddering slightly. He realized that she was holding back from laughing-and she was terrible at hiding it.

"It's not funny," Ramirez growled in annoyance, trying to lower his voice. His attempts were in vain. By that point, Sanchez couldn't stand it burst out into tearful laughing, collapsing on the ground against the wall, clutching her stomach as she doubled over in laughter. Ramirez, however, wasn't amused. He attempted to cough and see if that helped out at all, but even his coughing was high pitched.

Upon hearing this, Sanchez started laughing even harder than before. Not even when Ramirez was married had he dealt with such embarrassment in his life. He leaned against the wall in annoyance as she continued to laugh for at least another five minutes. Ramirez scrunched his face as the smell of blood from the dead soldier began to fill the area. Sanchez was now beginning to calm down, stifling shudders that would result in immediate laugh attacks. He contemplated asking her if she was finished, but thought better of speaking for a while. Instead, I made a questioning gesture that she read easily enough and she nodded, still stifling the laughs.

She stood up, grabbed her rifle, and began to walk down the hall. Ramirez grabbed her shoulder and gestured for her to hand over the rifle, despite her inquiring glance. She reluctantly gave him the rifle, which he took from her gratefully. He walked over to the man on the ground and fired three shots into his testicles. Blood began to pour out of the limp corpse as he walked away, handing Sanchez back her rifle with a nod. They walked down the hall together and back towards their area of building.

"All right," she said. "I need you to tell me what happened. And I promise I won't laugh at your voice." She added quickly. Ramirez stole himself for a few moments, and then began to speak. Luckily, his voice was not as high pitched and scratchy as before.

"I woke up and decided to walk around and look for you guys," he replied. Obviously, his voice was still ridiculously high distorted for he saw Sanchez bite tighten her jaw, perhaps even biting down on her tongue, to keep from laughing. He decided to ignore it. "I saw the guy at the end of the hall and was about to get impaled if you hadn't shown up." She nodded, took a deep, raggedy, breath, and then began to talk.

"Well, I guess it's a good thing that I found you in time," she said. "I was checking on your friends-and by the way, Dunn's doing fine and Foley's starting to recover-when I heard the doors come down in one of the halls. I went to check it out and found you getting your ass kicked-or more your _balls_ kicked-by that Russian bastard."

"I think we've got a bigger problem than the Russians right now, though," Ramirez told her.

"What do you mean?" She asked.

"The ash is starting to weaken the roof," he explained. "The stuff is like rock, and it's going to bring this whole damn place down on top of us if we don't get the hell out of here fast."

"I don't think that-" she began, when suddenly, the corridor ahead caved in, rock and ash raining down from above. Sanchez's eyes widened in utter shock at the sight. "Never mind, let's go!" They bolted down the hall and took a left. Sanchez opened one of the doors in the next hall, revealing Corporal Dunn sitting on a tattered cot in the back. He looked up and smiled when he saw Ramirez.

"Holy shit!" Dunn exclaimed. "James! It's damn good to see you, bro!"

"You, too, Dunn," he replied. "But we got to get the hell out of here; the whole damn building's coming down. Get your kit, we'll grab Foley, and then we're out of here!" He nodded curtly without any questions at all, though he could tell from his confused face that Dunn's mind was swarming with questions as though there was a wasp's nest hidden in its recesses.

Ramirez rushed down the halls towards his own room, finding a large slab of rock lying on the mat he was resting on only ten minutes earlier. Ash fluttered down from the hole in the roof, coming to a rest at the floor below. Ramirez quickly donned his Ranger outfit that rested at the back of the room-which he figured Sanchez must have stitched together as it was no longer torn, but still bloodstained in various places.

He holstered the P99 on his hip and looked around for his M4A1, but only found a SCAR-H. When he hefted it, however, it felt distinctively different, even looking a bit strange. It was lighter, with a different but still relatively similar design. He looked at the bottom where the manufacturing label resided, noticing that this weapon was actually called a 'SCAR-L' Standard Issue Assault Rifle. He shrugged and loaded in a magazine, taking a few others and clipping them to his utility belt. He liked the feel of a full-auto rifle in his hands; it was a reassuring weight to him, not like a deadly tool to take away lives like others might think, no matter how true it was.

Lastly, he grabbed his helmet and strapped it securely to his head. He sprinted out of the room and down towards the hall where Sanchez, a full-uniformed Dunn, and semi-conscious Sergeant Foley were waiting. Dunn had Foley slung over his back and Sanchez held the SCAR-H (which he now presumed was a SCAR-L) and together they ran out of the building and into the ash-filled world.

Ramirez began to gag and cough as soon as they set foot into the clumpy, rock-like, gray-white ash. The toxins contained in each particle of ash began to immediately take effect on their motley group, but the trudged on through wasteland. He looked up at the gray world and saw nothing of civilization-at least, not completely annihilated civilization. What buildings were left standing were in the process of crumbling, smoke billowing out of gigantic holes on the surface of the buildings.

Figuring that their best bet to finding a working radio transmitter was in the city, they redirected their course across a large, ash strewn field towards a large apartment complex. When they reached the doors, Sanchez kicked clear a spot on the ground where they could lay Foley. Dunn lowered the man to the pavement, though Foley was shivering and muttering in his state. Sanchez waved them off and they nodded, forming up on the door. Dunn nodded and Ramirez kicked it in, the two of them aiming their rifles down the hall.

"US RANGERS, US RANGERS!" Ramirez cried. The halls were silent though, dark and foreboding as they looked around. Ramirez slid a tactical light from his utility belt, strapped it to the angular, rectangular side of the SCAR-L, and flicked it on, a long beam of light going forward into the dark. Dunn did the same and the two scoured the building, searching for any sign of life inside. They did not, however, find anything living inside-nothing living, but they did find several corpses within. The majority of them were just civilians that were unfortunate enough to get caught in the crossfire between the Americans and the Russians. Neither side had survived.

They walked to the main desk of the apartment where residents would check in or out, kicking open the door to the manager's office. There was a large table inside and racks of materials scattered along the walls. They searched the room, tearing everything down from the racks in an attempt to find a radio, cell phone, anything. Eventually, Dunn found an old CVS radio on the racks.

"Do you think it still works?" He asked.

"Only one way to find out," Ramirez replied. They plugged it into the wall's outlet and Ramirez began to search for any available channels. There was nothing they could hear though, and Ramirez began to lose hope.

"Try rebooting the system, then boosting it with your own radio," Dunn suggested. Ramirez had to agree that was a good idea, and did just as he said. He tore open the rear panels of both radios and connected the wires to each other, small, miniscule sparks flying from the two and dancing across the surface of the table.

Dunn found duct tape and held it up to Ramirez, who took it gratefully. He cut off a one inch strip of the short, black tape and wrapped it around the two connected wires. The radio began to buzz with static as it began searching for channels. His hope renewed, Ramirez manually cut through the hardline of the apartment and connected the mainframe to the radio transmission. He began to switch through the available military networks embedded in the storage device installed on his radio, searching for anything within fifty miles of their location.

Unfortunately, they found nothing of use save for a playlist of songs that was operating in an unknown radio broadcast station near D.C. Ramirez beckoned for Dunn to hook up his radio to their makeshift system to boost the signal to another fifty miles out, but even at one hundred miles, they found no signals save for one that was a bit patchy and difficult to understand. Hoping that it could mean there was a casevac chopper nearby, Ramirez rushed outside to Foley and Sanchez, but found them instead in the main hallway and away from the ashes.

Ramirez took of Foley's radio and asked politely for Sanchez's, who gave him a What-The-Hell-Are-You-Doing? stare, but said nothing all the same. He rushed back into the manager's office and connected the extra radios to the system, once more rebooting the hardline, and sent out a signal that stretched two hundred standard miles in all directions. The signal boosted, they could now hear clearly what was being said on the other line. It was an active duty military network! Whooping with triumph, Ramirez sought the nearest secure link and honed in on that signal.

"Sir, we're getting an odd reading here," a man on the other line said to someone. "You might want to take a look at this."

"Well are they friendly or not, Private?" Another man with a deep western accent replied with a hint of annoyance.

"That's just it, sir," the Private replied. "I'm not sure."

"Goddammit, Private," he growled. "What the hell did I tell you about secure links?"

"Sorry, sir, I-"

"Never mind, give it to me," there was a short exchange of words and then the second man answered into the radio. "This is Admiral Harper or the US Battleship, USS Tennessee; who is this?"

"My name is Private James Ramirez of the First Battalion, Seventy-fifth United States Ranger Regiment," he replied. "There are three other survivors in Washington D.C., one of them is wounded and we need an immediate evac two miles south-southeast of the Pentagon, hold copy, over?"

"Private, this Admiral Harper," he replied. "I read you loud and clear. Currently there is no chopper support on that we can provide, but I'm getting you a line to the Commander. The survivors have orders to make way for the middle of the country but he may be able to pull some strings for you."

"Much obliged, over." Ramirez replied, relieved. They waited a few moments when a new voice entered the line.

"This is Overlord," the man said. "The Admiral has informed me that there are survivors. Who is this?" Ramirez once again repeated his name, their legion, and their location and situation.

"Our Sergeant is in critical condition and our medic is having trouble with him," Ramirez reported. "Can you provide a casevac for us?"

"Affirmative, Private," Overlord replied. "I'm sending a V22 and two F22 fighter escorts to your position and they'll be there within the hour. They're requesting for you to pop blue flares at your position, over?"

"Copy that, Overlord," Ramirez replied. "Wilco. Over and out." He cut the link and looked up at Dunn. "You don't happen to have any blue flares on you, do you?"

"Son of a bitch," Dunn sighed. They ran to the main hall where Sanchez was tending to Foley.

"Hey, Claire," Ramirez called. "Happen to have any blue flares on you?" She nodded and tossed a small canister to him. He caught it and nodded in appreciation as the two of them ran up the stairs to the roof.

"Claire, eh?" Dunn asked with a teasing smirk. "Got an eye for her, bro?"

"Ah, shove it," Ramirez replied.

They ran to the rooftop where they could overlook the destroyed city. That's when they saw it: an entire Russian convoy heading right for them. Ramirez cursed, knowing that he should have been more careful with the radio call. Now every Russian in the area was going to come right for them, and the BTRs that were trailing the convoy didn't look particularly friendly.

Ramirez called to Claire to get Foley closer to the roof, explaining the situation to her. She complied as the Russians thundered forward. Suddenly, they halted about four hundred meters ahead of them. Dunn and Ramirez were lying down on the rooftop, staring at them in nervous apprehension. Dunn was muttering something, his eyes locked forward. They clicked the safeties on their guns off, gripping them tightly as they waited for the Russians to make the first move. Instead, they rumbled forward, completely ignoring them.

The two breathed an exasperated sigh of relief as they left. "Damn," said Dunn. "I thought we were screwed for sure."

"Same here, man," Ramirez replied. Suddenly, there was a massive explosion and the apartment shook as the BTRs opened fire into it.

"Mother-!" Dunn started. They stood up, only to be knocked back down as more cannon rounds tore into the apartment. Sanchez ran up to them, stumbling as another cannon round obliterated another section of the apartment.

"What's going on?" She screamed.

"Convoy's got us in their sights!" Ramirez replied. "Where's Foley?"

"He's at the top of the stairs!" She replied.

"I'm going to go provide cover at the front!" Dunn called, racing down the staircase. Ramirez motioned with his head for Sanchez to follow him, and the two crawled across the surface of the roof to the other side of the apartment where the convoy was. They peered over the edge and saw the BTRs below, firing rounds at random into the building. The Russians were running around them to the front entrance, AK47s and TAR-21s raised, loaded, and ready for combat.

Ramirez called down the stairs to Dunn, warning him of the threat. Dunn called back to say that he could handle it and that his SCAR-L was armed with a GP25 under slung Grenade Launcher. Before Ramirez could ask what the hell kind of a launcher a GP25 was, the apartment rocked again as the cannons tore into them.

Ramirez searched his utility belt for anything that might be useful, but could only find Frag Grenades and an odd blue canister that looked like some kind of a spray-paint can. Sanchez obviously had one as well, as she was unhinging it from her belt. Perplexed, Ramirez watched her slide over to the edge of the building, pull the clip on the can, and quickly toss it down before darting back to cover and slinking over to Ramirez. There was a loud pop and suddenly, the cannon fire rate was decreased by fifty percent. Before he could ask why, Sanchez motioned for him to do the same. He did just that, but she told him to go in a different position on the roof, making him toss it another way.

He lifted his arm and threw it down forcefully, but not before noticing that the other BTR was sparking and motionless. Russians inside were screaming as other soldiers began to use welding tools to try and breach the BTR. _EMP grenades!_ Ramirez though, astonished and amazed. Then it hit him that there was suddenly far more technology than he knew of-SCAR-Ls, GP25s, EMP Grenades, all weapons of which they had dire use for in the beginning two months of the war but did not see until now. What had gone on while they were here?

CPL Dunn's POV

Dunn loaded a grenade into the odd cartridge of the GP25. It took him a while to figure out how to use it, as he needed to click a button to open a hatch on the side, causing a cylinder tube to eject from the main launcher and allow him to lob a grenade inside, something which he found far more complicated than the traditional M203, which only consisted of lobbing a grenade through the top, aiming a bit upward, and then firing. That was another thing that the GP25 did differently: the trajectory arc was far more stabilized and could almost be fire completely horizontal, the grenade flying straight and true until it got to a far-enough distance in which it would be classified otherwise.

He unfortunately found this out the hard way when he fired a grenade that impacted on the ceiling and caused half of it to collapse in front of him, luckily flattening three Russians in the process. He waited, crouched at the staircase and aiming the launcher down the hall, waiting for more Russians to walk through the open door. As soon as they did, he fired a grenade in the middle of their group, a ball of fire erupting around them and killing yet another five.

He did this three more times when suddenly, he was met with something that he could not blow up with a grenade launcher. A T55 rolled up in front, the massive cannon turning slowly towards him.

"OH SHIT!" Dunn yelled, sprinting up the stairs. A moment later, the entire staircase below him erupted into fire and rock, and half of it collapsed underneath him, leaving him hanging onto the metal rungs for dear life. He dropped his SCAR-L and held the stair with hands, pulling himself up and back to safety atop the case. Breathing heavily, he sprinted back up to get Foley and war Ramirez and Sanchez of the threat below. That is, if it wasn't already too late.

PVT Ramirez's POV

"Got any more of the EMP grenades?" Ramirez called.

"These things don't grow off trees!" Sanchez shouted back. "I only had two!"

"We've got a goddamn T55 down there! What are we supposed to do?" This time, Sanchez couldn't answer, and they huddled against the wall of the small structure the staircase was in. Rocks flew around them and fire flew above. Dunn dragged Foley out and now it was the four of them, sitting and waiting for their most imminent deaths.

Then, something amazing happened. There was a massive explosion from the front of the apartment, causing it to shake and shudder; it was a bone-jarring event that even woke Foley for a few moments. Two F22s flew overhead as they bombed the Russians below them. The three of them stood up, Ramirez and Dunn supporting Foley. Sanchez ignited the flare and tossed it on the roof, the blue, artificial smoke billowing high into the ash-filled air.

From the clouds of smoke, a massive V22 shot down towards the smoke at breakneck speed. Dunn and Ramirez cheered, Sanchez even joining in. Foley's eyes opened weakly as they did so.

"What's going on?" He asked drowsily.

"We're getting you help, Sarge," Ramirez replied as the V22 turned around, opening the ramp. Three marines and two medics rushed out to them. The medics took Foley on a stretcher and rushed him up the ramp. The marines aimed their weapons around the area as they helped the three of them aboard the V22.

"Alright, they're all aboard!" One of them called to the pilots. "Get us the hell out of this place!"

"Roger that!" The pilot called back, and the V22 flew off of the building and into the sky. They watched as the F22s obliterated the apartment and everyone and everything around it, the fire flying high into the sky in a massive, orange-red mushroom cloud that blackened at the top. Ramirez stared off into the destroyed capital of his country, wondering how the world could have possibly gone to shit so fast. He shook his head and sat down on one of the chairs as the ramp closed behind them. Sanchez sat next to him, Dunn across from him, and Foley was lying on a cot a few feet away from Dunn, the medics tending to his numerous injuries.

Sanchez leaned her head back and almost immediately began to sleep silently. Dunn took one look at her and Ramirez and chuckled before lying down on the seats and resting himself. Ramirez-ignoring Dunn's persistence that he was eyeing Sanchez-did the same. After all, when would they get another chance to rest after this?

**Well guys, what did you think? Hunter 2-1 and Sanchez are getting evacuated from D.C., the Russians were beaten off of New York, and the war seems to be going well! I'll try to update tomorrow, but I really don't think that I can as I have a lot to study for these next two weeks before the trimester is over and I get four easy classes and math (which I hate but can still pass with a C+ on) and you can expect more updates! **

**I keep forgetting to mention this, but once again, you can check out my Youtube Channel at /wolfgamewalkthroughs/ (if it doesn't show up, type this in without spaces: w w w . youtube . com / wolf game walkthroughs) and see my gaming videos! You can also send me a message or friend request over Xbox LIVE (my gametag is WOLFxVSlayer667, just tell me who you are first so I know that you came from here!) to talk about my stories, what I plan for the future, etc., or just play a good old game of TDM on COD, Rush on Battlefield, Slayer on Halo, Team Assault on Medal of Honor, and other game modes like Zombies, Survival, Co-Op Campaign, Firefight, etc.! Anyway, hope you all liked this!**

**-WOLF**


	7. Persona Non Grata

"Persona Non Grata"

August 17, 9:51:39, 2016

Yuri

Task Force 141, DISAVOWED

Himachal Pradesh, India

"_At the jagged edges of the war, there were still Russians that resisted Makarov's lunacy. These were men who were willing to fight and die for what was; right men who knew what Shepherd had done to us, and men who we could trust and count on. Now, we just need to find them." He finished the final note in his war journal, and then stuffed it in a pocket on his vest._

_ "Captain Price," Nikolai reported. "We've got vital signs but they're weak!" Price cursed and ran across the dilapidated medical chamber to the side of his friend, John 'Soap' MacTavish. The surgeon had removed the clothes from his torso, his bloodied chest exposed to the air. The surgeon worked tirelessly to stitch the large, paper-thin line on his chest where the dagger had sank into his flesh, only missing vital organs by a hair's breadth._

_ He's a hard bastard, Price thought. He'll make it, if not any of us. _

_ The surgeon could not sedate him as he needed to stay perfectly conscious or else he may not wake up again. The upside was that that meant Soap had a fighting chance at life again. The downside was that the pain caused Soap to writhe underneath the surgeon, making his task that much harder. After three hours, he had hardly stitched more than three centimeters, and there was still at least another three to go._

_ Soap's dark blue eyes gazed off at the ceiling, his breath coming out in short, ragged gasps. He turned his head and his eyes locked with Price's, almost as if he were trying to convey a message that he could not give him verbally. Price set a reassuring hand on Soap's, trying to muster an encouraging smile, but Price could tell that it was a weak one. The surgeon threaded in another stitch and Soap closed his eyes tightly and seethed in agony, followed by an ear-splitting cry._

_ "Have the rest of the Task Force made it here?" Price asked Nikolai._

_ "Unfortunately, no," Nikolai sighed. "The vast majority of the survivors have, but at least thirteen have gone missing. It seems as though the last of Shepherd's men are still mopping up what he started."_

_ "How many have we got?"_

_ "Other than us, there are exactly thirty two survivors from the purge. I'm also calling in my own men who know of my allegiance to the 141."_

_ "Who's your best?"_

_ "His name is Yuri, an ex-Spetsnaz soldier, and," he added. "The only other man I know who truly hates Makarov more than you do. As if that was possible." _

_ "Well as long as we all have a common interest at killing that madman then we shouldn't have any hard feelings towards one another." Suddenly, the computer in the back began to beep. They had previously wired it to act as a make shift radar, which meant that if it was beeping, then something was coming for them._

_ There were several green dots already next to them symbolizing the Task Force survivors, but there were over thirty red dots behind them, some larger than others, that symbolized unidentified bogeys inbound for their position. _

_ "It's Makarov!" Price growled. "He's come to mop up the rest of us."_

_ "My men are closer and I can get Yuri here as soon as he arrives," Nikolai said. "But how are you sure that we can get Soap and the rest of the men to safety?"_

_ "Because it's what I do." Price replied firmly._

Yuri was a young Russian in his mid-twenties, sporting a short buzz cut and wearing the insignia of the Hammer and Sickle, a star floating above the two; it was the flag of the Russian Spetsnaz. His arms and upper hands were tattooed with various designs that he fit to his liking, but he preferred to keep the vast majority of them covered up. His sleeves were rolled up just above his elbows, an old habit that he could never seem to break. When his old friend, Nikolai, had summoned him, he game without the slightest hint of hesitation whatsoever. When a fellow comrade was in danger, he saw it as his prestigious duty to come.

He ran through the halls with his AK47 strapped to his back, his Desert Eagle holstered on his hip, and his Fragmentation Grenades and Flashbangs clipped securely to his utility belt. Indian civilians crowded the halls, so he was forced to maneuver around them and through them, muttering apologies whenever one of them gave a startled exclamation. Most of them, however, stared in awe at the sight of the tall Russian man hurrying through the halls of the hospital complex.

Speaking of which, Yuri never got the chance to ask Nikolai why in the name of Stalin they were in Himachal Pradesh, but he was sure that Nikolai had good reasons for doing so. Either way, it was better than being in the New Russia. The entire country was in mortal chaos, cities turning into bunkers and military bases. The President tried to reassure the citizens that it was all simply precautionary measures to protect them from the evil Americans, but Yuri knew full well that it was Makarov who started the war, not America. Few Russians knew this, and the president was one of the many who did not.

Yuri burst through the doors at the end of the hall. He was met with the sight of Nikolai standing next to an old man wearing a tattered hat, worn clothes, and had a thick mustache that was graying like the rest of his hair. An Indian surgeon was tending to a man on a large operating table. He was covered in blood and was gasping for air, coughing up small clots of blood onto the floor. He had a short Mohawk and vertical tattoos that ran down his face. Upon hearing the door open, Nikolai looked up. He gave him a grin and he could read relief in Nikolai's eyes as he beckoned him over.

"Yuri, come here!" Nikolai yelled. Nikolai's voice was slightly different than he remembered it, a bit scratchy and deeper in pitch, but he paid it no heed as it was of little importance; he also wore a backwards American baseball cap. What had his friend been doing while he was gone these past months? He ran over to the operation and stared down at the wounded man in shock. The man grabbed Yuri's vest with weak, trembling fingers and coughed more.

"Nikolai, what is-?"

"There is no time, my friend!" Nikolai said. "I promise I will explain everything later, but Makarov's men are coming here and we need to get Soap to safety!" Yuri guessed that 'Soap' was the wounded man, but as soon as Yuri heard that hated, Ultranationalist name, his eyes burned with darkened fury and his fists clenched tightly.

The man with the hat stared at Yuri, studying both him and his expression at hearing about Makarov.

"Ah, Yuri," Nikolai said. "This is my good friend, Captain John Price. The man on the table is Captain John MacTavish, but we all call him Soap." Yuri nodded as Nikolai filled him in on the escape plan. His helicopter-well, his stolen helicopter-was waiting just about two miles away from the hospital. If they could safely get Soap to the helicopter, they could spirit him away to another secure location. Suddenly, there was the muffled sound of a small explosion and an odd creaking, groaning sound like bending metal.

They looked around the room in complete silence, trying to find out where the sound was being produced. Suddenly, the far wall exploded; a large wall of fire flying in front of them. The men were knocked to the ground, Soap's surgeon table wheeling around a bit. Blood roared in Yuri's ears and his entire body ached from the force of the explosion. He coughed and looked around at the wood and stone-strewn room. A Hind had crashed directly into the wall, the massive Russian helicopter flaming and smoking in its place.

Yuri saw one of the pilots inside the cockpit struggling to escape, but he drew his Desert Eagle and fired a bullet through the glass, killing the pilot instantly. Then, the wood creaked and the Hind's metal hull groaned, then it fell from the wall and down to the ground several meters below. Yuri holstered his Desert Eagle and grabbed the AK47, forcing himself to his feet. Nikolai ran over to him and helped him up. Price ran to the large, gaping hole, carrying an M4A1 that was aimed at the courtyard below.

"Do whatever this man says!" Yuri gave a curt nod and ran up to Price, who was already giving him the order to take up a position on the balcony.

"Makarov's going to do whatever it takes to wipe us out," Price explained. "We need to hold them off as quickly as possible ore else-"

"I got it," Yuri cut him off. "I know enough about Makarov to know what he'll do to us." Price gave him surprised look, then nodded and aimed out of the window and at the main gates of the courtyard. He ran to the balcony and overlooked the courtyard below where ten Task Force 141 soldiers from the few men that actually survived Shepherd's purge. They aimed their weapons at the front gates where Makarov's men would burst in. Yuri looked over the arch and the other buildings to see several Russian Hinds lowering into the streets. He clicked off the safety of his AK47, affixed the red dot sight attached to the top (he personally preferred an optic sight over the traditional iron sights), and cocked back the pin on the side, lightly tapping the trigger, but not enough for the gun to actually fire.

It seemed an eternity for Makarov's men to come anywhere near the doors. The men in the courtyard were starting to get apprehensive and looking around the rooftops for any sign of movement. Suddenly, the gates exploded and to doors flew inside, crashing onto the stone tiled ground. Armored Spetsnaz Elites stormed into the area, AK47s, AK74u SMGs, and TAR-21s blazing with red fire. The Task Force opened fire on the Elites from their cover, Yuri providing overhead fire with Price from above. When the Russians began to climb up the rooftops to do just as they were, Yuri redirected his fire to tear into the flanking enemies.

It was a definite effort to keep the Elites from pushing forward, and one of the Task Force were cut down, a medic trying in vain to revive him. Then, the Russians finally realized that Yuri and Price were firing at them from above and fired at them as well. Three bullets flew past Price and Yuri heard the strangled, gurgling screech of a man behind him. At first, he feared that the bullets had hit Price rather than flying past him, or Nikolai or Soap was hit. Instead, it was worse: the surgeon operating on Soap and keeping him alive lied on the ground in a sticky pool of crimson. Blood streamed out of his mouth and over his now-paled skin.

Yuri cursed and ran up to the bedside. Nikolai motioned for the sterilizing needle on the cart next to him as he attempted to hold the writing form of Soap still on the bed. He shoved Soap's shoulders down, keeping his torso relatively still.

"Give him the shot!" Nikolai ordered. Yuri nodded, placed a hand on Soap's chest until he sought out an area that wasn't cut, stitched, or infected by the wounds inflicted by Shepherd, then plunged the needle into Soap's chest, pressing down on the top and injecting the sterilizing fluids into his bloodstream. Soap jerked and looked as though he were about to have a stroke, then his eyes rolled up in his head and he lied flat on the bed, unconscious. He took out the needle and frantically patched up the profusely bleeding wound.

Price ran away from the gaping hole in the wall and motioned for Yuri to follow him. Just then, a Russian burst through the door, aiming his AK47 at Yuri and Nikolai. Price bellowed and struck the Russian in the face, tackling him to the ground. He drew a dagger from its sheathe hidden in his battle-worn uniform, and plunged the sharpened blade into his abdomen. He jerked and screamed, but died fairly quickly.

"Nikolai, grab Soap!" Price ordered. Nikolai nodded and began to heft Soap over his shoulders to carry him through the streets. "Yuri, you're with me! We're going to get Soap to the evacuation site and get the bloody hell out of here!" Yuri complied and followed Price out of the room and down the cluttered yet abandoned halls. Two of Makarov's men smashed through the windows, but it was almost as if Price was expecting them to do just that, cutting them down before they even got their feet to the floor.

Price broke down another pair of doors and they took a shortcut down to the courtyard below them. The crashed Hind was lying in front of them, only leaving a small gap for them to exit through. Price crouched down and slid through the opening first, followed by Yuri. Nikolai and Yuri had to carry Soap through as the opening was not large enough for both he and Nikolai to fit in. They lied him on the stones and Nikolai stayed behind with two more of the Task Force-the only of three other survivors-to extract him and pull him out to a car outside that they would use to transport him to the helicopter.

Yuri and Price fought the Spetsnaz Elites and pushed them back until there was nowhere left for them to go and they were able to kill them on the spot. They ran down through the gates and formed up near the lower doors below.

"Nikolai, what's the status on Soap?" Price asked into the radio.

"He's stable for now, but we've got to get him out of here!" Nikolai replied. "Two more of your men are dead, but Mole and I are extracting Soap now!" Price cursed when he heard of the deaths of the Task Force.

"Roger that," Price replied. "Yuri and I are taking to the streets. I've recruited the help of the locals and they've agreed to help us get to the extraction point. They know the risk but they're willing to take it nevertheless. Just get to the helicopter; we'll meet you there, over."

"Da, roger that, Price," Nikolai replied. "Good luck, my friend." With that, he ended the communication link and they ran down the streets. They were met with ten Indian militants that were willing to fight for their land and their families against the Russian oppressors, all of them carrying a variety of modified weapons of the likes that Yuri had never seen before.

After a brief exchange of words, Price, Yuri, and the Indians ran down the streets deeper into the city and towards the outskirts where Nikolai's Little Bird was waiting for them. Suddenly, there was a hail of gunfire and the screaming of civilians. People were rushing up the street past them as Russians behind them fired heavy and medium machine guns into the crowd, leaving behind a bloody heap of dead, innocent civilians whose only wrong was being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The Indians-despite their religions that believe in peace and not fighting as well as not giving into their rage-eyes widened in shocked horror, then furrowed in insatiable rage. As one, they raised their assault rifles and opened fire on the Russian Elites. Not expecting much resistance, the Elites were not prepared for the onslaught by the Indians, an old Captain, and an ex-Spetsnaz. The strange team of men began to advance down the street, pushing the Russians back. Yuri's AK47 clicked without bullets flying out, so he dove behind a van on the side of the street. He ejected the magazine, loaded another, pulled back the pin, and rather than using more ammunition, he did what he was taught to do in the Spetsnaz: improvise.

With only four magazines of ammunition remaining, Yuri knew he had to conserve what ammunition he retained and look for something that could take care of several of Makarov's men at once. He possessed frag grenades, but he preferred to keep those for drastic situations. He lied flat on his belly and crawled underneath the van, using his AK47's red dot sight to scan the area. Makarov's men were entrenched in holdout positions in houses, stores, and apartments across the street. A fifty caliber high powered, seventy-five-hundred round turret was placed on a secluded balcony that was cluttered enough for the man firing the gun to be covered. Only his armored head was visible, and that was not a chance he could take. The gun would tear into the van and obliterate in in seconds, with Yuri directly underneath it.

He shifted his view into a window near the 'Fifty, noticing a gas oven next to it. Formulating an idea-no matter how risky it was-Yuri moved so that he was half under the van, half outside of it. He aimed and fired a shot at the oven. The knob on the stove shattered, but the bullet also hit the controls, turning on every one of the burners. Knowing he had little choice, he reluctantly unhinged a frag grenade, took the pin out, briefly aimed, and threw the grenade with all his might into the window. Frag grenades have a detonation time of 5.3 seconds. It took just over three for him to aim and throw, and it only took two seconds to detonate inside, blowing the gas oven with the force of a one ton container of C4.

The entire building shook and rumbled as the explosion killed the Russian manning the machine gun. Then, the building itself came down on top of the Russians, immediately crushing them. The sound of snapping bones was fortunately hidden by the sound of crumbling stone and wood. Yuri leaped out from under the van and ran up to Price, who had a tight expression on his face. He managed a small smile.

"Good job, Yuri," Price complimented him. "Keep it up."

"Da," Yuri replied. "Will do, Captain Price," He nodded and the group continued down the streets. Several buildings were crawling with Makarov's men, but they were able to avoid them. As they were about to exit through the main gates down the hill, they took heavy fire from Russian Technicals (cars rigged with mounted machine guns in replacement of actual Humvees and armored vehicles) from beyond it. They hid behind the walls as the bullets flew through the metallic gates.

"Nikolai, we're pinned down by the gates!" Price called in the radio. "What now?"

"Take an immediate right," Nikolai advised. "Cut through the buildings and circle around to the warehouse."

"Why the bloody hell should I care about a bloody warehouse?" Price growled exasperatedly.

"Just get there," Nikolai replied firmly. "You'll see what I mean soon enough." Shaking his head, Price ran up to the house next to Yuri and kicked open the door. There were at least fifteen civilians hiding inside, all of whom ducked for cover and screamed as they rushed in. Giving sincere apologies to the civilians, Price, Yuri, and the Indian Militants rushed to the back and into an alley. Price took a left and ran up to the warehouse. He shot the hinges and kicked in the door, allowing them access inside.

Price clicked a small flashlight on hanging form his utility belt and shined it around the small, cramped ware house. Old floorboards creaked underneath them, gardening tools hanging from racks around them, dust floating around the warehouse-which Yuri thought was more of a shed than a warehouse-as though the thing hadn't been used in years. Considering the smell and poor condition of the thing, that assumption was probably correct.

"Alright, Nikolai," Price said. "We're in this horrible warehouse. What are we doing here, over?"

"Look at the floorboards," Nikolai replied. "There should be a trap door that leads directly below you into a lower storage." Price looked down and Yuri did as well, discovering that the creaky floorboards he'd stepped on was really the door. He stepped off and pried the door open, revealing a dark storage room below them. Price walked down the old stairs and into the room. Crates filled the storage room and barrels stood randomly.

"Alright, we're in."

"Good. Now, there should be a particularly large crate with Russian written language on the sides. Do you see it?"

"Roger that," Price replied, approaching a two meter wooden crate inside. "I'm opening it now." He tossed Yuri the flashlight, holding it at the crate steadily. Price searched the room until he found a crowbar on the ground. Plunging the knife-thin edge into the side of the crate, he tore off the side and found something inside that was covered in a dark green sheet. He tore it away and stared inside, awestruck.

"What is it?" Yuri asked quizzically. Refusing to answer, Price instead walked inside, dragging a massive metal machine outside. It resembled a small tank with a sentry gun issue machine gun and attached tube contraption.

"Whatever it is," price replied. "It has two inch armor plating, a twenty millimeter nose cannon, and-" he added with a mischievous grin. "A semi-automatic grenade launcher attached to the side. The only thing is that I can't figure out how to work it; I don't know Russian, unfortunately."

"Is there a computer around that controls it?" Yuri asked.

"There should be a console near the front door," Nikolai replied. It'll let you control it from a live video feed." Yuri nodded and ran up to the front, activating the console. Price, on the other hand, opened the garage door and sunlight streamed into the room. Words flew across the screen too fast for Yuri to follow, but it did not matter. The controls on the keyboard were not dissimilar to that of an average BTR, that of which he'd driven before.

A video feed popped up, as well as two meters that read the overheat meter for the machine gun (which contained a surprising fifty thousand rounds) and the grenade launcher that that contained thirty shots. Russians ahead fired at the gates that Nikolai, Soap, the Indians, and the surviving Task Force 141 soldier waited. The small machine moved forward on large treads outside of the garage. Yuri adjusted the view on the machine, firing the grenade launcher into the center of their group. A Hind flew above them, so Yuri fired two more grenades at the propeller, causing it to explode and crash into a building. Yuri hoped no one had been inside of it when it crashed.

Nikolai ran down the hill with two of the Indians, the soldier, Soap, and Price as they helped each other through the alleyways of the city. It took a while of firing at helicopters and troop transports, bringing down buildings, and tearing into the Russian forces for the team to reach Nikolai's helicopter. By then, Price, Nikolai, and Soap were the only men left. As they loaded inside, Yuri's view was lost as an AGM Russian Assault Drone screeched overhead, bombing the machine.

Yuri swore and sprinted from the garage. The AGM appeared to have friends, for the entire city was being bombed by the things. He ran down the dirt street and rounded to the left.

"Run, Yuri!" Price yelled. "We're ready to go, just get the bloody hell over here!"

"You don't need to tell me twice!" Yuri snarled, sprinting faster. When he reached a large, wooden platform, a massive explosion rippled in front of him and the platform-and Yuri-fell down the edge a cliff.

"YURI!" Price and Nikolai screamed in unison. Yuri tumbled down the rocks and dirt of the steep hill, wood and debris crashing around him. Before he could gain a proper foothold of the rocky edge in front of him though, something smashed into him and pushed him off the edge. About eighteen meters below, a large, raging river crashed.

By reflex, he held out his arms to protect his head, but it did little to help him. He smashed into the freezing water, the rapids tugging him along and forcing him under the water. He breached the surface and gasped for air, but he was forced back under almost immediately. He couldn't get back up, and his body was tumbling, turning, and twisting through the water as debris rained around him. His lungs screamed for air, something of which he could not provide.

He fell down a small waterfall, taking a short breath before he fell into the water again. The water turned brown and murky, bubbles, dirt, and debris clouding his vision. His arms flailed around, trying to grasp something-anything-that he could use to haul himself out of the water. Miraculously, his left hand gripped a root protruding form a collection of large rocks. He gripped it with both hands and pulled himself out of the water and onto the rocks. He spat out water and gasped, grateful for the fresh air. He immediately decided that under no circumstances did he ever want to come within a mile of water again save for drinking water.

He coughed up water, small clots of blood following it. He was immediately aware and searched himself for any wounds he may have taken, but he realized that it must have been due to the fall, possibly breaking several bones. He stood up nevertheless, searching the tree line for any sign that Nikolai, Price, and Soap had escaped. It would be a long time before he could find a way out of India, but he was an ex-Spetsnaz; his work was never easy. He didn't catch any sight of them, and his radio had been dislodged from the fall, so he couldn't radio in to see if they made it. Hoping for the best, Yuri trudged on across the riverbank and away from the city, towards any others in the distance past the forest.

Then, he heard the sound of propellers and looked up to see Nikolai's Little Bird hovering over him. Price stood on the edge, looking out over the area. Yuri waved, happy that they'd survived. Price looked down and yelled to Nikolai, "I've found Yuri! Lower the chopper!" That was a surprise to Yuri; he hadn't expected him to want him to stay around. It wasn't that he didn't like the company of others, but he didn't expect them to want him around anymore.

"Yuri!" Nikolai's voice greeted over the Little Bird's speaker system. "You did not think we'd leave you behind, did you, my friend?"

"Who the bloody hell is Yuri?" Soap groaned.

**Back to the good old team! Make sure to rate this chapter!**

**-WOLF OUT**


	8. Know Your Enemy

"Know Your Enemy"

August 18, 15:23:11, 2016

John 'Soap' MacTavish

Task Force 141, DISAVOWED

Outskirts of Munich, Germany

"_Will he be alright?" Price asked, worriedly. He had worked up a frantic, nervous habit of glancing out the windows of the office. _

_ "I'll be alright, Price," Soap growled, forcing himself up. "Zakhaev couldn't keep me out of the fight and Shepherd's not going to be the one to do that, either. I'd sooner kill civies with Makarov than be stuck on a bed." _

_ Price was in a fit of indecision at the prospect of allowing Soap to walk less than four days after he was impaled. He was barely able to survive, the knife missing his heart by mere millimeters. He was lucky that it only glazed one of his ribs, though one of them was split in half. He still wore gauze around his chest, but the rib cage wasn't too bent inward that it would puncture an organ. Soap insisted that he was well enough to fight again, but Price was still skeptical as to if that was true._

_ "I'm not sure-" Price began._

_ "It is something of honor," Yuri spoke up. "In the Motherland-at least, what remains of it-we care as much about our honor as our own lives. If we do not have honor, we do not have true lives worth living. You, John MacTavish, you are a respectable man: a man of honor. You would be greatly respected in Russia if you were born of our blood." Soap beamed at Yuri's speech, obviously pleased with what Yuri said about honor._

_ "I appreciate the support, Yuri," Soap said. "But please, you have no need to call me by my full name. Everyone calls me Soap, and you may call me that as well." For a moment, Yuri looked as though he would object at first, but closed his mouth and nodded nevertheless. _

_ "I agree with Yuri," Nikolai spoke. "He has survived more than any of us: he's survived the helicopter crash in Russia. He survived and even killed Imran Zakhaev. He survived the operation in Chernobyl. Soap even managed to save you from the Gulag and then survived the massacre in the Boneyard. If he believes that he can fight, we should allow him to fight."_

_ Soap looked at Price expectantly, awaiting his decision. Price sighed. _

_ "Fine; have it your way," he tried to ignore the ridiculous grins on Soap, Nikolai, and even Yuri's faces. "But the first shred of a sign that you aren't completely combat effective, Nikolai's shipping you back to London."_

Soap hefted his M4A1 SOPMOD and clicked off the safety. Yuri carried an AK47, Nikolai a UMP 45, and Price, a G36C Assault Rifle. Soap was surprised to see that weapon; he hadn't seen the model since the days of Zakhaev. There was no fighting in Europe yet, but Soap, Price, and Nikolai were currently at the top of the World's Most Wanted list. Yuri didn't seem fazed by that fact, and decided that he would take up Price's offer to join them.

They walked through the shadowy alleys of Munich, dodging German civilians and soldiers. Everyone was on high alert, expecting some type of attack from either America or Russia. England tried to explain the situation to Europe that America did not kill the civilians in Russia and that it was a huge mistake, but their attempts were in vain. They did not know who to trust, so every country was on high alert for anything that could pose a threat to them. Including four men sulking in an alley carrying lethal weaponry and awaiting the presence of even more men armed with lethal weaponry.

"So how many of the Task Force survived?" Soap asked.

"Only the eleven or so that are meeting us," Price replied flatly.

"We were the top of our class," Soap breathed. "How could Shadow Company have wiped out nearly three hundred of the best soldiers on the planet?"

"When Shepherd says he doesn't like to leave loose ends, he really means it."

They carried on through the streets, sticking to the shadows cast by the buildings and avoiding the bright center of Munich. Rats scurried around the alleys and into pipes and tunnels as the team made their way towards a large apartment complex. They circled around back and ran towards an old, rusted door at the far end. Price rapped his knuckles against it three times. A small part of the door slid away to reveal a man's eyes peering out at them.

"Password?" He said in a French accent.

"Imran," Price replied. The small part of the door slid shut as soon as he said the name.

"What the hell kind of a password is 'Imran?' You might as well be pleading for a second Zakhaev!" Soap exclaimed.

"Better than Vladimir or just plain Makarov, isn't it?" Price replied. Soap was slightly mortified by the fact that not only had Price made the password the name of his old nemesis, but even considered using the name of their _current_ enemy.

The door opened to reveal a small, rundown apartment. The man who opened the door, a soldier that Soap recognized from the Task Force 141, stood to the side, carrying an ACR 6.8 Assault Rifle. Soap was heartened that another man from the 141 had survived the purge. They walked inside and the man closed and locked the door behind them. He led them through the halls and into a large, cleared out living room. There were ten other men in the room, all of them survivors. Soap recognized Mole, Worm, and, miraculously, the two snipers that had accompanied Ghost and Roach to Makarov's safe house. As soon as he thought of the safe house, he felt a pang of grief at the deaths of his two friends.

He walked over to them and shook their hands, their expressions solemn. Everyone was quiet in the small room as they gave each other their condolences and congratulations for escaping the purge. There was, however, the type of unnerving quiet that they could not ignore. They were the only survivors of nearly three hundred of the world's greatest soldiers, all the rest listed as killed in action. At least in their minds they knew that they were murdered by the traitor, Shepherd, but to the Americans and the rest of the world, they were listed as the most wanted criminal masterminds ever known.

Price was the first to break the silence. He walked to the front of the room and stood straight at the back, his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes surveying the troops.

"Men, it's great to see that you all survived," he began. "We're wanted men now and no one is going to change that unless we can find a way to clear our names. We're the only ones who know that it was all Makarov and Shepherd who crated this war, and we're the only ones who know that we were not working in collaboration with either one."

"How do you propose that we go about doing that?" A German man asked.

"First of all, we have to find Makarov," Price replied. "He, like all of the Ultranationalists, has a knack of remaining disturbingly hidden. I want to show you something." He turned around and opened up a storage closet behind him. He turned on a light and revealed a larger room inside. There was a massive billboard inside. Pictures connected by strings and wires covered the board, dating back from 1996 to the current year, 2016.

"You've been busy," Soap observed.

"That is quite an understatement," Yuri commented.

"Yes, I've been working on this for some time," Price said. "Luckily, Jeremy's been here long enough for him to record whatever I couldn't." He nodded to an American 141 soldier.

"What's all of this for?" Nikolai asked.

"This is what we're going to use to find our rat," Price said. "Everything that's happened to us so far since my failed assassination attempt on Zakhaev back in Pripyat to Shepherd betraying us is recorded in this room. Whatever his next move is, we're going to find out where he is and what he's planning. The massacre in Russia wasn't his last move, and we need to find out where he's going to next before he can make another."

"Do you have any leads thus far?" One asked.

"No, not yet," Price replied. "That's why I called for this meeting; we're all going to figure out who Makarov's going after next and when he's going to go after them."

"If only Ghost and Roach were here," Soap muttered. "Those two could crack anything."

"Well, there's something that you should know," Edward, a British man who accompanied them on the attack on the estate.

"What?" Price asked.

"Well, we went down to where Shepherd shot them. Roach was nothing but cinders and bones when we found him." Everyone in the room winced as he said that. "But Ghost, on the other hand…"

"Ghost was shot through the chest and the bullet flew through his body and just missed his abdomen," the other sniper replied. "The fire had spread to him as well, but we were able to put it out. We recovered his body and thought that their dog tags should be given to you." He held out a pair of silver, chained dog tags to Price. He took them and looked at the tags in sadness. Soap felt a pang of sadness at the sight as well, trying to forget their violent deaths.

"Where did you bury him?" Soap asked.

"Bury?" A new voice spoke. A hauntingly familiar voice. "Bury? Why would you bury a ghost?" They all looked out of the closet and into the fully uniformed and armored figure of a Task Force 141 soldier. He wore a skull mask and dark sunglasses covering his face.

"You know, Captain Price," he said. "I've always asked why we ever bothered wearing those fireproof vests. Well, I guess it came in handy for this instance." Out of the shadows and into the light of the storage closet stepped Ghost. He diligently took his dog tags from Price's hand. He, Nikolai, and Soap looked at him, awed and dumbstruck by the sight. "So, are we going to do this or what?"

**I know that in actuality Ghost died, but I thought that since this is a fan fiction website, that it would be cool and creative to increase the plotline of the story by bringing back Ghost!**

**Please rate the chapter, and I'll be updating this weekend!**

**-WOLF OUT**


	9. Burnt, Bruised, and Fucked Up

"Burnt, Bruised, and F****d Up"

August 8, 9:42:16, 2016

Ghost

Task Force 141

Makarov's Safe House, Georgian-Russian Border

**9 Days Prior**

**Ghost's Point of View (POV)**

_"There's an enemy Hilo coming from the south of the estate!" Scarecrow cried. Roach turned around and sure enough, a Hind was flying from across the lake towards them. Roach called in for the sniper team to take them out, only to be informed that their Javelin missiles were running dangerously low. Roach didn't have time for their worries, however, and ordered them to fire it anyway. They grumbled at the other end of the radio, but fired the rocket nevertheless._

_The data transfer was taking far longer than it should have to complete, and they had been holding off the Russian forces for nearly half an hour. The transfer continuously delayed as well, only adding to the tension amongst the group. Roach ran up to the DSM and glared at the dusty screen, only to see that it was only ninety-four percent complete. He swore and retook his position at the window, firing at the Russians coming from the boat house to the south._

_They were outnumbered, outgunned, and barely holding out, waiting for a bloody computer to decide their fate. Suddenly, a bullet flew through the window and smashed into Scarecrow's skull. Roach cried out and sprinted to Scarecrow, but it was already too late-he was dead before he hit the floor. Infuriated, Roach threw a frag grenade down the hill and fired bullets into their chest areas to add the most pain; they deserved no less for killing so many people. Couldn't the Russians see that they were trying to save the world, not destroy it? Obviously not, thought Roach. Else this war would have ceased to exist the day it began._

_Then, the computer began to beep uncontrollably. Roach rushed to the monitor and gasped in relief as the bar read 'Installation Completed'. Roach called out to Ghost who was taking up a position in the office with Worm and Ozone. The three of them followed Roach as he grabbed the DSM and hooked it to his belt. They sprinted down the hill, gunfire flying after them. A bullet hit Ozone and he went down. He struggled to stand back up and run after them, but more flew into him before he could make the vain attempt._

_One of the soldiers suffered the fate of dying by the cold, metallic clutches of a mortar shell. That left Ghost and Roach to sprint down the hill and get to the evacuation site in the field just beyond the forest. The two dodged bullets, mortars, grenades, and RPG fire as they made their harried escape. Mortars rained down inside and around the forest. Trees snapped like twigs, boulders were blown to pieces, and the hill was torn apart as easily as wet paper. As they neared the field, Roach could see at least twenty helicopters rising from the forest beyond, bullets and rockets already tearing into the Russian forces behind them. Then, with a skull-jolting explosion, a mortar smashed directly next to Roach, throwing him across the field._

_"Roach, don't worry!" Ghost screamed. "I've got you! Dagger Two-One, I've popped red smoke at the tree line! Standby to engage on my mark!"_

_"Roger that, 141, we're spinning up the big guns!" The pilot of the Little Bird replied. Ghost handed Roach an AK47 and began to drag him across the field towards the fleet of helicopters._

_Roach began to fire upon the Russians in the forest with his AK47, but his vision was beginning to ebb and fade as he did so. None of the bullets hit, but Dagger Two-One's machine guns were doing the work for him. Suddenly, a bullet flew into Roach's chest. He screamed in pain, releasing the AK47 as Ghost continued to drag him across the field. He closed his eyes, losing consciousness._

_"Come on!" Ghost yelled. "Get up, get up! We're almost there!" Roach painfully struggled to his feet as Ghost supported him. Ahead, a Chinook was landing in the field, the grass billowing and waving as they neared. General Shepherd, clad in his United States Military uniform, stepped out to greet them._

_"Do you have the DSM?" He called._

_"Don't worry, we've secured it sir!" Ghost replied. Shepherd put Roach's arm over his shoulder to help support him. A look of relief washed over him._

_"Good that's one less loose end," he said. Then, with a swift, precise movement, he pulled out a .44 Magnum and shot Roach in the stomach. With a gasp, he fell to the ground, tasting and seeing blood._

_"NO!" Ghost screamed. He raised his ACR to fire, but Shepherd was faster. He shot Ghost, the bullet tearing through his chest and flying out of his abdomen. He too, fell to the ground. Shepherd solemnly gathered the DSM from Roach and walked away, ordering two of the soldiers in Shadow Company to dispose of their remains._

_Roach was thrown into a shallow ditch, his lifeless body grinding against the stone and dirt. He coughed and groaned in pain. Looking to his left, he saw the already-dead body of Ghost thrown in after him, his body twisting and turning as it tumbled in. It all happened in slow motion, paining him even more._

_Something splashed onto Roach's body, causing him to start and he looked around for the source of it. He looked up at a man pouring something on him. Gasoline, Roach thought. After he left, the figure of General Shepherd appeared above him, blotting out the bright rays of the sun. He blew smoke from his mouth as he took out his cigar. Then, he flicked it at Roach. The gasoline burst into flames and Shepherd gave a malicious, satisfied smile of contempt. With that, he walked away with Shadow Company. The last thought that Roach had before he entered the darkness of the void was, it's over. We failed. It's all over. The flames devoured them, all according to Shepherd's plan_

I woke up into the cold gray light of dawn. Every part of my body hurt, every fiber of my being yearning to fall back into a lulling unconscious state where the pain would leave my body. No matter what I tried, though, I could not force myself to sleep. I figured that if I couldn't rest, then I might as well get up and do something worthwhile. I looked at my left hand and noticed that the entire arm was badly burnt, along with the clothes that were on it. I surveyed the rest of my body and noted that my clothes were badly burnt and torn. Places where skin was not covered up were blackened and charred; I could see the demolished muscle tissue and burnt veins under them. My skull mask no longer covered my mouth, and I testily brought my fingers to it.

As soon as my crude, sickening scraps of skin touched what mutilated, gory parts of my face that remained, blood spewed from dried cracks onto my vest. I suppressed a groan of pain, knowing that if I did, it might just cause more bleeding. I dragged myself into a sitting position and noticed that my legs were largely unharmed, which meant that Roach and I could leave. _Roach_. I shot a look to my right and saw a blackened heap right next to me. Heedless of my transgressions, I shook his shoulder and said his name. My voice sounded distorted and alien to my ears, and blood dripped from what was left of my lips.

Roach didn't respond, so I shook him again, a bit more forcefully. Once more, there was nothing that he said. I turned him over so I could try smacking him awake, but instead I took one look and turned away to throw up blood and whatever else was part of it. I took a shaky look at my old friend-what was left of my old friend. He was nothing but a charred skeleton, his bones blackened, cracked, and still smoking. The skull's eye sockets stared blankly at me, its lower jaw missing. Dust was piled up in and around the skeleton, dust that had formerly been Roach. I tried to cry, to let tears run down my mutilated face, but the fire must have burned it out of him.

Neglecting to continue staring at Roach's corpse, I quickly tore the dog tags from the skeleton's neck, snapping the spinal cord by accident. The entire skeleton crumbled into dust; only the jawless skull remained, still glared at me. I began to walk away, armed with his dog tags and fists. He looked up the hill where the mortars had been fired, only to find that the hill was completely annihilated, the trees and undergrowth uprooted, burned, and blown to pieces. Corpses of Makarov's men lined the hill, still carrying AK47s.

I numbly wrapped the dog tags around my own neck and advanced on one of the corpses. Without hesitation, I tore the AK47 from a man, checked that it still had ammunition, and proceeded up the hill, picking up magazines wherever I found them. When I reached the top, I saw the boathouse where the Russians had attempted to flank them-it was half submerged in the massive lake. The safe house was completely leveled, only a chaotic scene of wood and metal left behind. Shepherd had truly cleared out all the evidence, but he had not killed me. Sure I was burnt, bruised, and ridiculously fucked up, but I was not dead. _Though I should be,_ I thought.

I legs began to burn as I walked through the fields around the destroyed solar panels, causing me to limp and go far slower than usual. I collapsed on the ground and dragged myself over several rises before I could pull myself to my feet and limp up again.

"I can do this," I muttered. "I can do this." I continued to say this to myself despite the bleeding it caused as I climbed up the hill to the rise where our sniper team was. They were not there anymore, but there was no sign that they had been killed. I walked farther into the mountain range where we had come from to get there, calling out their names into the gray sky, only to get no response each and every time that I called. Weariness began to set in as the hours dragged on. My legs were numb and I was sure that they would become useless soon enough.

As I rounded a bend, I saw a devastating sight: the entire valley ahead of me where I had been dropped off at was razed; a blackened wasteland not dissimilar to the wastelands in Chernobyl. The snipers were nowhere in sight, and there was no possible way that they could find me now.

"I can't do this!" I screamed to the empty sky. Blood flew from my mouth as I did so, and I convulsed on the ground in a blood-coughing fit. I curled up in a ball and wept with no tears coming out of my eyes, blood leaking from my mouth and the scarred tissue around it. I wept for Roach who was murdered by Shepherd. I wept for the Task Force 141 that had probably been killed as well. I wept for Price and Soap and Nikolai who would have no idea what was going on until it was too late. Shepherd would take over and tear the world to pieces.

I slammed my fist into the ground repeatedly screaming and causing more blood to fall onto the ground in stick clots. Weak, I slumped to the ground and lied on my back, staring into the darkened sky. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and I knew that I had to leave and try getting to shelter. But then again, what was the point of doing that? I was a dead man anyway; there was no point to trying to survive if I wasn't going to receive help from anyone. So I lied there, resting in the ash and dirt of the razed valley. Rain began to fall, hitting my face with a force that caused more and more bleeding. I could taste the bile and tangy taste of the sticky, hot blood. Pus began to spew forth as well, and I leaned over to throw up again in distasteful disgust.

Sick of lying there like a weakling rather than the trained, battle hardened elite warrior that I was, I stood up, advancing down the valley. The farther south that I headed, the closer I got to the Georgian border and away from Makarov and Shepherd's men. I did not know if the war was still going on or if Shepherd had managed to end it-then again, it was probably only a day since Shepherd had pulled his Coup De Grace, so the war was probably still going on. That meant that the farther away from Russia I got the better. I walked down into the valley, knowing that it would be a difficulty journey ahead. Hefting my AK47, I began my trek through the valley and into the mountains. It was time for revenge.

**The next few chapters are going to be from Ghost's point of view and his journey from Russia to Georgia, and I truly hope that you guys all enjoy the different point of view, change in storyline, and larger length in the storyline. Ramirez will probably only appear one more time in this Act before the next one, there will be a few SAS chapters, and then there's one other chapter before the next act. I will also continue writing my Halo FanFic along with this one, so I hope you guys all enjoy the stories I have to show you! **

**-WOLFXVSLAYER667**


	10. Hunter and Hunted

"Hunter and Hunted"

August 9, 3:11:48, 2016

Ghost

Task Force 141

Georgian/Russian Border Mountains

_They watched the creature from a ledge in the cliffs high above. It was a strange, bipedal thing that trailed with a profound limp and smelled of sickness and blood. They watched it stumble and blunder off into the burnt-lands. They could hear its alien talk as it growled and snarled at itself as it tried to make way through the rain and out of the burnt-lands. It was coming the time of the long-cold, and the wolves knew that prey had been unusually scarce in their abode. They did not prefer the creatures like the one they were staring at, finding their furless, cold bodies to be disgusting and soft, unlike the beautifully succulent bodies of deer and caribou, whose bodies burned with the heat of running and whose muscles were tough and tender to the wolves' liking. But when the long-cold began to move its sky-pack across the sky, the wolves knew that any prey-even distasteful ones-were acceptable to feed their pack._

_ One of the wolves, a large, black-furred alpha, tensed his shoulders and dug his claws into the ground, imagining the thrill of the hunt. Then it occurred to him that the strange creatures did not like to hunt and gave up far too easily, hence his hunting instincts slackened and he almost began to regret having to give the order to chase it. His calculating yellow eyes remained locked on the figure and he could smell the fresh scent of warm blood. His ears perked up, his tail wagged slightly, his haunches tensed, and his mouth watered. He licked his upper lip, remembering the taste of blood and meat from their last meal, which was nigh on five sun rises earlier. One of his pups had died because it did not attain a sufficient amount of meat to survive, and he refused to let it happen a second time or a third._

_ Four of his other wolves, two of them subordinate beta wolves and two lowly omegas slunk down behind him, not daring to come closer without the permission of the alpha. He glanced back at them and noticed then that there were only four of them when there used to be five. He shot them all a questioning glare, receiving several whines from the wolves. He turned back in full and growled, shoving his ears forward and standing rigid on the spot, waiting for one of them to come forward. At first, none of them so much as breathed, then an omega crawled forward, taking great care to keep his body on the ground and his face turned slightly into the dirt in a display of submission to the alpha. Seeing this pleased the alpha and he sat down politely, wrapping his long tail around his paws and giving a short growl to the omega to slowly stand._

_ The omega obeyed, standing to his paws slowly but steadily, making sure his tail did not rise too high and his eyes did not directly meet the alpha's in which case it would be seen as an act of challenge to the alpha's authority. He kept his back slightly hunched so that he would not be too high or eye level with the alpha. When he finished, he gave a short whine to show the alpha that he was once more submissive to his authority, and the alpha approved. Wolves communicate with their bodies as much as the sounds that they produce, so if the omega missed a single twitch or pitch in a note of its growls, snarls, barks, or howls, the meaning would be completely different than what the alpha meant. Now, he was asking-no, not asking, but demanding-that the omega inform him where the third omega had disappeared to. _

_ The omega began to tremble in fear of what might happen to him or the other omega-especially the other omega-when he revealed to the alpha where he was. Nevertheless, he gave a short, decisive response that explained to the alpha that the omega had snuck ahead to hunt the strange creature by himself to prove himself to the pack and have the alpha promote him to a beta. Despite the other two alpha's and omega's snarls of disproval and attempts at explaining that one could not just be 'promoted', the omega darted ahead to hunt the creature without them. _

_ The alpha's eyes regarded his wolves coldly and the omega slunk down, pressing himself as far to the ground as he could. He had briefly seen the alpha's eyes and knew that there was an intense, burning fury that resided in their yellow depths, and he did not want to bear the horrible wrath of his leader-wolf. The alpha growled at the omega to stand and show him where the other omega was. Shakily, he did as he was told and stiffly walked to the edge of the precipice, scanning the burnt-lands for the other omega. Finally, he spotted a silver blotch run across the burnt lands, directly at the creature. The omega gave a snarl and leaped at it, but the creature simply batted him aside and struck him thrice on the head until the omega bolted off in their direction. Noting the look of hatred simmering in the alpha's eyes, the omega backed up and joined the two betas and omegas lying on the ground._

_ The omega dashed up behind them, pretending to fit in with the rest of them as if he were never gone at all. Knowing what the alpha would do even if they tried to show the omega mercy, they backed away. The omega gave a despairing whine and ran over to the betas, who snarled ferociously at him. He tucked his tail between his legs in fear, and then tried with his own kind, the omegas. They were all friends, so surely they would defend him? It was not to be, as the omegas did just as the betas had and snarled at him. He backed off, trembling, and then tried to rejoin them again. The omega who told the alpha of his whereabouts bit his flank, drawing blood and fur from it. It yelped in shocked surprise, its eyes swimming with fear and horror._

_ Then, the alpha walked towards the wolf, his claws unsheathed and his fangs barred. His guard hairs stuck high and his muscles were tensed and ready to pounce on the omega. The omega quivered in fear, then turned tail and fled. The alpha, however, was faster, and tackled the omega. There was snarling and yelping, even a disturbing, un-wolf-like screech as the alpha literally tore the omega to pieces for his disobedience. Blood and gore smothered the alpha's muzzle, its lips pulled back to reveal the omegas entrails hanging from between his teeth. The message was clear: do as the alpha says, or end up like the poor omega._

"Bloody hell," Ghost muttered as he limped down the hills. "Where's bloody Nikolai when I need him?" Ghost had been walking for three hours when the wolf showed up. It was a scrawny, young animal that looked as though it were still only six months of age. Ghost was surprised that the wolf had even contemplated the possibility of taking him down. Unfortunately, where one wolf was there was bound to be a pack somewhere close. Ghost knew enough about wolves to know that a lone wolf was rare and that a wolf pack owns a territorial radius of thirty miles, as well as a hunting radius of ten. That meant that Ghost was within that ten if the wolf was trying to hunt him.

"Captain Price," Ghost said into the radio for what must have been the hundredth time since he began his trek through the mountains. "This is Ghost; do you copy, over?" All he ever received was static on the other end of the line. He groaned, once again drawing blood from his viciously mutilated mouth, but if was not bleeding as profusely as it had been earlier. He could feel his mouth drying and hardening as the crisp, dry air had begun to dry out his mouth. The prospect of looking at what he might appear right now disgusted him; he was more afraid of not recognizing himself than the damage that had been done to him.

He shifted his grip on the AK47 and continued walking. He looked down at the gun and promptly cursed himself for not killing the wolf. It might have gone back and warned the pack of his presence!

"Bugger," Ghost growled. "I can kill Russians; I can kill Ultranationalists; I can kill everyone that's shooting something at me yet I couldn't shoot a damn wolf. If Price is still alive, I'm just going to keep this part of my walk out of the story. Well, if I'm still alive by then." He had been walking for several hours when he finally reached the tree line and walked into the forest. The rain had stopped and night had fallen, only a pale glow from the last vestiges of the sun illuminating the forest.

Suddenly, Ghost heard a snap from behind him and a low growl. He whirled around, clicking off the safety of his AK47 and pointing it through the trees. He did not see anything, did not hear anything. Weary, he continued on deeper down a large hill that would lead him deeper into the forest. The mountains were snowy and his boots began to crunch through an ever-growing layer of snow. Ghost knew that he would need to start a fire soon to keep himself warm through the night and to frighten away predators.

He searched his utility belt and found that the only way he could start a fire was an unused frag grenade. He shrugged, not too pleased with his choices-or rather, his choice-and continued on. He heard the growl again and he whipped around, searching the trees and snow banks for the source of the growl. There was something stalking him, and he did not want to become the food of an animal. Suddenly, he saw a dark shape emerge over one of the banks-the shape of an enormous, black-furred wolf.

Its yellow eyes appeared silver in the rising moonlight, its teeth glittering, its muzzle flecked with smears of blood. Ghost gave a warning shot at the wolf's paws, but it did not faze him, just making it snarl at Ghost. Then, four shapes of wolves charged down the hill from the right and left, all of them large wolves intent on his death. Panicking, Ghost turned and sprinted down the hill.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!" Ghost screamed as the snarling, blood-thirsty wolves chased him. He tripped over a root and tumbled down the hill and into a thick snow bank. He dragged himself out of the snow and ran deeper into the forest. More wolves began to appear from the trees as well until he was surrounded by nearly fifteen of the animals.

"Fuck!" Ghost yelled, shooting random shots into the air, trying to scare the wolves off. He did not dare stopping to take a shot at the wolves for fear that they would attack him if he stopped running. There was a large mountain ahead of him, and Ghost made way for it in hopes that the wolves would stop following him. He climbed the rocky, iced mountain as the wolves continued their pursuit. In a last ditch effort to lose the wolves, Ghost unclipped his frag grenade, pulled the pin, and through it down the cliff edge at the wolves. He climbed faster and faster to escape the blast radius.

There was a loud, ringing explosion from below and causing the yelps and snarls of several wolves. There were haunting howls from below and Ghost saw the shape of the large black wolf emerge from the trees and regard him with its cold eyes. It barred its fangs and tilted back its head to howl at him. Ghost turned back to the mountain and continued climbing when he encountered a large cave. He cautiously walked inside, calling into it and not receiving any response. He walked inside and laid his AK47 next to him, searching for anything he could use to create a fire.

He could not, however, and sat there shivering, his breath coming out in gusts in the frigid air. Then, he heard shuffling in the on the rock in front of him at the cave's mouth. Ghost picked up his AK47 and pointed it outside. He clicked off the safety and made sure to pull the pin to activate the fire sequence. The large shape of the black-furred wolf appeared; its eyes and teeth shining in the pale moonlight. It growled deeply in the back of its throat, glaring at Ghost with malice. Suddenly, two hands grabbed Ghost from behind and dragged him deeper into the cave. A man ran to the cave mouth, wielding a burning branch at the wolf.

It backed off and bolted down the mountain. The man who challenged the wolf was wearing a Ghillie suit; so was the man who had dragged him away. He knew them, for he knew the insignia of the Task Force 141 anywhere.

"Thought you were dead," Edward grunted.

"I thought I was, too," Ghost replied.

"Well, it looks like we're better off that way."

**Hope you enjoyed, please review!**

**-WOLFXVSLAYER667**


	11. The Grey

"The Grey"

August 10, 4:27:13, 2016

Ghost

Task Force 141

Georgian/Russian Border Mountains

"_You're sure they're still up there?" The Frenchmen asked the man. _

_ "Da," the other man replied. "They are too experienced of soldiers to have all died. Just make sure, my friend."_

_ "Nikolai, what if they are dead?"_

_ "Then return to the safe house. I don't want any more casualties."_

_ "Alright, I will see you on the far side."_

"So what are we going to do?" Ghost asked them. The snipers looked withdrawn and gaunt, and frail. It was as if they had given up the will to live; yet they were alive just as Ghost was, so how could they do that to themselves?

"Wait here," Edward replied glumly. "Hope that someone notices that we're up here. If not, we get eaten by those wolves."

"Wolves don't actually eat people, do they?" Ghost asked, somewhat worriedly.

"Not technically," Charles answered. "We aren't part of their diet and they seem to find humans repulsive. Unfortunately their food is scarce because of the bastard Shepherd razing half the countryside, so we're the wolves' only source of food now."

"Perfect," Ghost muttered. "Do you have any more guns, ammunition, anything?"

"We were forced to leave them behind," Edward replied. "They would slow us down so we couldn't take everything we could have. We only got these." He held up a silenced USP .45 pistol. Ghost knew he had an AK47, but only had one more magazine and ten rounds in the current mag. That should be enough to kill all the wolves, but then again, Ghost had only noticed the first wolf when it was almost directly upon it. Ghost slumped down in the corner of the dimly lit cave and watched the small, pitiful fire crackle.

They were the best warriors on the planet and they couldn't even escape a pack of wolves. They had no radio contact and hardly any weapons, so unless someone had survived, they were going to die from cold, starvation, or by the tooth and claw of the wolves. Their options were limited and none of which were particularly pleasant.

The three of them sat there for a long while, none of them speaking.

"Look," Ghost said, standing up. "We have to try getting back to civilization. For all we know there can be a cottage or village just beyond this range."

"Do you have any idea how large this mountain range is, mate?" Edward asked.

"No," Ghost said.

"It's over thirty miles of forest and mountains," Edward said. "We go out there, we're dead either way. There's no point."

"No point?" Ghost asked. "_NO POINT_? You can't be bloody serious! We're the most skilled, dangerous men on the planet and you're giving up because you don't want to bloody _walk_?" Edward shot to his feet and glared at Ghost.

"Look where we are!" He roared. "We can't get out of these mountains because there's no way to escape them! We're going to get picked off by those things and by that time we're already be half dead!"

"NO!" Charles screamed. "I for one do not want to die here! Not here, not now! I'm going with Ghost if it means there's even a shred of a chance that we can survive. Stay here if you bloody want, Ed, but I'm going to take my chances!"

Everyone was very surprised at Charles' outburst; he was a fairly quiet man and had never shown much emotion, much less this bout of rage. Edward sighed.

"Fine, I'll go," he said. "We'll all probably die, but I suppose it's worth a shot.

**The Next Day**

"Everyone ready?" Ghost asked. Edward and Charles nodded, and they began their trek through the mountains. Ghost aimed his AK47 down the mountain, searching for any sign of the wolves. They didn't find them, so they continued moving on. The terrain was treacherous and they spent long hours scaling large rocks and jumping down jagged edges. The sky remained a dull gray hue as they continued their journey. Thunder rumbled in the distance even as snow began to fall from the thick cloud cover above. There was no sign of the wolves anywhere near them; there did not seem to be any animals in the entire mountain range.

They did not let down their guard and give themselves the luxury of believing that they were safe from harm, remaining weary of any danger. Eventually, though, their muscles became just as weary and they grew tired as they ascended and descended mountains and hills. The wolves still did not show; there were no howls, growls, or even the slightest sign of movement or sound from within the forest. Either the wolves were stealthily stalking all of their movements from hidden locations, waiting them out or waiting for darkness, or they had bugged off. Unfortunately, they all knew that the chances of it being the latter were less than zero.

The sky began to darken and clouds shrouded the stars that would normally have been floating high above alongside the pale orb of the moon. Ghost knelt over in the snow and searched for sticks or anything else easily flammable that they could use to see in the forest. Edward and Charles stood watch, searching the woodland around his flanks to ensure that the wolves did not sneak up behind him. He found a few dry pieces of wood on the ground and set them in a small pile in front of him.

Ghost pulled out the magazine from his AK47 and pulled out a bullet from the cartridge. He used his knife to strike off the head of bullet and poured the gunpowder on the wood, tossing the bullet away and laying the knife in the snow in front of him. He then took a stick and began rubbing it fiercely in the heart of the wood pile. The gunpowder began to light and soon enough, the small pile became a fire. Ghost shouted in success and smiled. He turned back to Edward and Charles to see them already staring at him; or rather, staring past him, past the fire. Their eyes were frozen in terror, locked onto something that Ghost couldn't see. He turned around back to the fire and looked past it…right into the eyes of the large wolf.

Ghost's eyes locked with it, his blue eyes lost in the yellow eyes of the wolf. It growled at him and stepped around the fire, standing face to face with Ghost only two feet apart. It took a tentative step forward, growling from deep within its throat. Its lips pulled back and its long, yellow fangs emerging. Ghost began to slowly crawl back away from the wolf and towards Edward and Charles. Ghost's breath was caught in his throat and he couldn't inhale. The wolf stepped forward again, Ghost countering with crawling back.

He saw the AK47 and the knife lying in the snow just beyond the wolf and out of his reach. He would have cursed himself for his mistake had his mind been functioning normally to allow him the will of thought. All his body could do was scream at him, MOVE BACK. He did just that, and then scrambled to his feet to stand beside the two snipers. The wolf, noticing that it was now outnumbered and possibly outmatched, backed away into the darkness, snarling and growling at them the entire way until it was out of sight from the three of them.

Ghost walked over to the weapons, loading the AK47 and sheathing the knife. They stared into the darkness, awaiting the return of the wolf, but it did not come. Ghost inhaled and then exhaled, finally drawing breaths that he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. The Ghillies were doing that as well, all of them breathing heavily and releasing large plumes of moisture into the air with each breath.

"That's it, then," Ghost spoke up. "They know where we are now which means that we're just bloody bait for those things. Come one, we keep moving."

Armed with small firearms, an automatic rifle, a knife, and torches, the three men walked into the forest. The darkness around the bright flames of the torches was infinite, absolutely impenetrable and hiding the wolves. The three knew they were being stalked by the things, but refused to stop pushing further into the forest. The pale glow of the moon began to illuminate the forest in an eerie light. Nevertheless, it did little to assist in their overall visibility.

Ghost led the way through the forest, vaulting over a fallen tree and onto a natural game trail. Then, Ghost realized what he'd just done.

"Shit," he growled, walking to the right of the trail and into the forest.

"What are you doing?" Charles asked.

"We're walking on their bloody game trails," he replied. "We might as well be putting ourselves on death row!"

They continued through the forest, weaving around trees and brush. Their torches began to dim and simmer in the light. Ghost regretted not bringing more sources of fire to continue giving themselves light in the forest. Snow began to fall and quickly reduced their fires to cinders. Ghost sighed and tossed it asunder. Suddenly, there was a snap from deep in the forest. The three aimed their guns into the forest, frantically looking for the source of snap. Ghost looked down the sight of his AK47 and aimed down the hill.

There was a dark shape moving down the hill around the trees. Ghost pointed it out and they fired every bullet they had at the thing. It turned and tried to lumber off, but their bullets smashed into its body and downing it. Out of ammunition, they started down the hill to make sure the thing was dead. When they reached the bloody corpse, they realized that it was not a wolf.

"Son of a bitch," Edward growled. "It's just a bloody Kodiak!"

"What the bloody hell are they doing out in the middle of winter?" Charles inquired.

"In case you haven't noticed, Charles," Ghost replied. "These mountains are snowy but it's still only autumn." There was a snap from behind them and they whirled around to see the wolf pack standing where they were firing at the bear.

"Oh, FUCK!" Ghost screamed. "RUN, RUN, RUN!" They began to sprint through the forest as fast as their adrenaline-filled limbs would take them. None of them had realized that they could sprint so far and so fast, but yet they were doing just that. The wolves chased them at breakneck speed, their hot breath reaching their ankles and lower legs as they ran after the human invaders.

"FUCK!" Edward screamed. "FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!" The wolves snarled and growled at them as they made their escape. Ahead, there was a large hill that led down into a valley below. They continued running faster and faster, heading for the hill. As they reached the crest, Charles fell down-and right off of a cliff.

Ghost dove forward and grabbed him by the wrist, pulling him to safety. The valley was at least thirty feet below the cliff, yet the wolves were not going to let them run around the cliff.

"Perfect," Edward said. "Wolves or the cliffs: well mates, what now?"

"I can tell you what my choice is!" Ghost yelled, and then leaped down off of the edge of the cliff. Edward and Charles looked back to see a dozen glowing eyes and gnashing fangs and claws. Shrugging, Charles leaped over the cliff, quickly followed by Edward. Luckily, the snow below them was soft enough to be cushion and break their falls. They scrambled to their feet and sprinted further into the valley. Edward and Charles got ahead, Ghost limping behind from the effects of his injuries.

His leg began to burn and ache and he could feel blood running down it. Ghost knew that he wasn't going to make it, not in time to catch up with Edward and Charles to try and escape the mountains. Suddenly, he was forced to the ground from behind. He turned over and stared into the eyes of the large grey wolf that had been leading the pack. It lunged forward, but Ghost was half of a second faster, grabbing the wolf's neck and forcing it away.

He grabbed the knife and scrambled to his feet. Ghost could hear the frantic calls from Edward and Charles, signaling that they were coming to get him. They would not be fast enough, but Ghost was going to make sure that his last stand was spent fighting. The wolf snarled and leaped for him. Ghost lunged forward and swung the knife into the grey's flank. It recoiled and snarled viciously at him, saliva flying from its mouth, its eyes burning with rage.

It lunged for his legs, seeking to take him down from below. Ghost jumped out of the way, then returned and tackled the grey. He flipped it over and saw its face directly in front of his. With a mighty bellow, Ghost plunged the knife into the grey's neck, twisting the blade inside of it and causing a torrent of blood to fly forth from its soft, furry tissue. Its snarls and growls began to choke up and gurgle, and then it began to jerk about, twitching. Then, it lay still. Ghost had killed the grey.

His victory, however, was short-lived, as he saw from across the valley, the rest of the pack was rushing for him. He turned and began to run back to Edward and Charles. Suddenly, he heard a loud, thumping sound from above. He looked up to see a large Black Hawk come down from the sky. Its spotlights sighted Edward and Charles, eventually moving to Ghost. It landed and the door slid open, revealing the form of one of the French Task Force 141 soldiers, Pierre.

"Quickly, get in!" He called. They rushed inside and Pierre slammed the door shut. "Go pilot, go!" The pilot-whoever he was-complied and the Black Hawk began to rise high above the valley, the forest, and the mountain range itself. They breathed heavy sighs of relief, Pierre smiling.

"Nikolai had great faith in your survival!" He said. "I had my doubts, but I am most glad that he was right!"

"Nikolai?" Ghost asked. "He's alive?"

"Yes, as well as many others," Pierre replied. "Shepherd is dead, by the way."

"Who killed him?"

"Who else?"

"Price?"

"He and Soap," he replied. "We have a new problem, though: we might be starting World War Three."

**I'm so sorry for taking so long to update, guys! These chapters were difficult to write as I had to think a lot about what kinds of things Ghost would experience in his journey to get back home with the Ghillies. I hope you enjoyed the change in the storyline, because unfortunately there's going to be a lot more chapters from the original story for a while aside from Ramirez, Dunn, Foley, and Sanchez's perspective of the war. Make sure to rate!**

**-WOLFXVSLAYER667**


	12. Turbulence

"Turbulence"

October 3rd, 18:30:33, 2016

Andrei Harkov

Russian FSO Agent

Il-96-300PU-"Command Point"

"_They say that truth is the first casualty of war," Price muttered. He began typing madly into the keyboard. The bars began to appear as the hacking process continued and quickly shot to the end of the line, ensuring that he was now in the system. He typed in the phrase BLACK_VIKING into the computer, hailing one of his many contacts. "But who defines what's really true?"_

_ "What are you doing, Price?" Soap asked from across the room, loading his M4A1. Nikolai was sleeping on his cot, Yuri painting a camouflaged design on his AK47. _

_ "Having a chat," Price replied. _

_ Black Viking sent a reply only a few moments later._

_ Operation Black Viking is inactive._

_Who is this? Price began typing a response for Black Viking._

_ $._

_ Intel reported $ KIA._

_ Don't believe everything you read._

_ Intrigued, Soap walked over and watched their conversation._

_ "What idiot reported us as KIA?" He asked._

_ "That idiot would be the one who got you to that doctor," Nikolai replied. They all jumped when he spoke, not expecting him to be awake. His eyes remained closed and he still laid on the cot, his arms crossed over his chest. Returning to the computer, he typed in one last response._

_ Operation Kingfish is still in play._

_ What?_

_ Operation Kingfish is still in effect. We're on the situation around the clock now. Keep in touch. $ out._

_ "Truth is simply a matter of perspective," Price said. He switched on a small television in the corner and flipped through the channels until he found the right one containing the news report on the peace treaty between Russia and the United States of America. President Vorshevsky was to meet with President Harrison in Hamburg to discuss the terms of a treaty to end the war. Unfortunately, Price, Soap, Nikolai, Yuri, and all surviving members of the disavowed Task Force 141 knew that Makarov was going to do everything and anything he could to prevent that from happening. _

_ The news report began to launch into the investigation made by both US and Russian officials as to the origins of the massacre, though over ninety percent of Russia believed that the US was to blame for the massacre, even going so far as to show the security footage of the soldiers gunning down the civilians. It even showed a video clip of Makarov himself walking down the halls and shooting men, women, children, elders, and security officers._

_ "They have a bloody picture of him right there!" Soap growled exasperatedly. "Why can't they see that Makarov is the one who we have to go after?" Price sighed and shook his head._

_ "The duty of every soldier is to protect the innocent," he replied. "And that sometimes means to preserve the lie of good and evil-that war isn't just natural selection played out on a grand scale. Unfortunately, the only truth that I've ever found is that the world we live in is no more than a giant tinder box. All it takes is to light the match."_

"Attention all passengers and personnel," the pilot announced. "We will be landing in two hours. Please prepare for landing sequence when ready." Andrei Harkov stood at attention outside of the President's quarters, Sergeant Anton Fedorov standing likewise a few meters away, checking his clipboard. The wait was long and tedious, but eventually, President Vorshevsky exited his quarters, approaching Fedorov.

He extended a hand toward Fedorov to take the clipboard. He handed it to Vorshevsky and he examined the papers. He paced around the room and flipped through the pages, jotting down notes on the papers and humming to himself. The door adjacent from his quarters slid open, allowing two people to walk through.

The first one to walk in was another FSO agent, a private with a small mustache. He stood beside the door and gestured for the second one to enter. The second figure was a young woman in jeans and a pink sweatshirt.

"My apologies, Mr. President," the private said. "She insisted that-"

"It is alright, private," Vorshevsky replied. He turned to the woman and his eyes softened. "Alena, what are you doing here?"

"Vasili is waiting for you, father." She replied.

"I know," he replied sullenly. He put his arm over her shoulders and escorted her outside of the room. Fedorov gestured for Harkov to follow, and the four of them walked down the halls of the airplane. "He is expecting an immediate answer from me."

"I do not like him," Alena growled.

"No one does," Vorshevsky replied with a sigh. "That is why he is good at his job." Posted on the walls were painted pictures of past presidents.

"So what shall you tell him?"

"The truth,"

"But he won't want to hear it!" Alena protested.

"He has no choice; that is the advantage of being the president." They stopped outside of the main meeting chambers where several FSO agents waited, talking to other agents across the plane for progress reports. Vorshevsky leaned over to kiss Alena's forehead. He patted her shoulder. "I will see you at dinner."

She nodded reluctantly and walked away, led by another agent. Harkov and Fedorov followed Vorshevsky to the door at the end of the hall. Vorshevsky stopped to compose himself, took a breath, and walked through the door. Inside the chambers, they were greeted with several bickering men. The two agents stood at the wall as Vorshevsky stood at the head of the table and announced his presence. Immediately, the men looked over and stood at attention.

Vorshevsky told them to sit down and they began with their long and dreary conversation. Harkov had never much cared for politics and therefore never had the best of times when servicing the president. If he'd known how much boring politics were going to be involved, then he would have never applied for the job.

"My friends," Vorshevsky said. "Allies, associates; we must come to an ultimatum: for the sake of our people, our children, and of our children's children, it is of utmost importance that we seek peace with the western powers-"

"Mr. President," Vasili interrupted. "Now is not the time to appease our enemies. We must win this war for the blood of the innocent spilled on the soil of our homeland."

"We destroy our enemies when we make peace with them. If you cannot see this, then you are not worthy of the government you assist in controlling."

Vasili's eyes burned with anger; Vorshevsky's comment definitely stung.

"I say that we make a push to take their largest cities," Vasili proclaimed. "From the west side of their country, we can push past their defenses in California and strike further into their land until Washington D.C. is ours!"

"I must concur with Vasili, Mr. President," another governor spoke. "We cannot show weakness in the heart of this conflict."

"Then how do you two propose that we do such a thing without sending more men to their deaths than civilians in Moscow? We have to-" Suddenly, they were interrupted abruptly by the sound of screaming from another cabin. There were several gunshots that followed, silencing the screams.

"Highjackers!" Harkov exclaimed. Fedorov nodded curtly and pulled out a P99 security sidearm, pressing his back to the wall at the far end of the room next to the door that the noise was coming from.

"Team Three, highjackers are taking the plane," Fedorov said into his radio. Meanwhile, Harkov motioned for the senators, governors, and the President to take cover under the table. "Do you have anything to report, over?"

"We need back up!" A man yelled on the other end. "We need-" There were more gunshots and the sound of a choked gurgle, then silence.

"Team Three, come in!" Fedorov called anxiously. "Dammit, Team Three, report!" Then, the door flew open, followed by three militants wielding AK74u SMGs and KSG shotguns. Fedorov tackled one and Harkov shot the other two from across the table with his own P99.

"Come on, Harkov! Let's go!" Harkov nodded and followed Fedorov out the door.

He bent over to examine the body of one of the militants and noted that he was wearing tattered clothing and bearing a strange insignia on his chest: a deformed Spetsnaz sign with a slash through it. It was the sign of the Ultranationalists. He relayed this to Fedorov who looked shocked, but quickly regained his bearings and the two of them continued through the plane. They rounded a corner and found more of the Ultranationalist militants finishing off passengers in another cabin.

Diving for cover, Fedorov and Harkov began to cut down the militants. Bullets flew through the seats they took cover behind, but luckily, none of the bullets hit them. Then, a militant with a large machine gun entered the cabin and began to fire a steady stream of bullets through the seats, forcing Harkov and Fedorov out in the open. Harkov sprinted towards the machine gunner and rammed his shoulder into his rib cage, stunning the militant. He pulled out his P99 and shot the man through the temple, killing him instantly.

Fedorov grabbed the machine gun and together, they ran down the halls of the plane. When they reached the lobby, they were met with three militants and two FSO agents. Before they could do so much as fire a shot, however, the plane's gravity fluctuations shifted abruptly, sending everyone flying high into the air, smashing into the ceiling, the walls, and the seats. The militants tried to aim their AK74us at the agents, but the gravity fluctuated once more and they all smashed into the floor. Everyone's weapons went flying, scattered across the floor.

Again, the plane banked and fluctuated, and the gravity itself was completely absent, sending everything floating as if they were in orbit. The militants were now prepared and grabbed their AK74us, but Harkov had also shot ahead and grabbed the P99. He aimed the gun at one of the militants and fired two shots, the bullet shells floating around him. The remaining militants killed off two of the agents, Fedorov floating dazed as he tried in vain to find an available weapon.

Harkov kicked off like he was swimming, and then twisted his body sharply to aim a swift kick at one of the militant's faces while shooting the other. He turned again and fired another shot into the second militant. After a few moments, the gravity fluctuated once more, sending them and all the other objects inside of the room fell the floor with loud thuds. Fedorov groaned as he hauled himself to his feet, Harkov helping him stand.

When they had regained their bearings, they ran down the stairs to the second floor. Coffee and food was splattered along the walls, floor, and ceiling. There was also the unmistakable splatter of crimson blood intermixed with it all. A side door opened, allowing Vorshevsky to enter, flanked by two more agents wielding P99 side arms.

"Mr. President," Harkov addressed him. "Keep your head down and stay behind me."

"Where's my daughter?" He demanded, neglecting to do as he was told by Harkov. "Where's Alena?"

"We are working on it, sir," Fedorov replied. He motioned for Harkov to move, and the two ran through the halls and into the dining room where more Ultranationalist militants lie in wait. They raised AK74us and opened fire on them, the two other agents slamming Vorshevsky to the ground and standing in front of him in protection. Once they were eliminated, the plane began to bank and twist as though it was out of control.

"What the hell is going on?" Fedorov called into his radio.

"The highjackers and in control of the plane," a man replied. "They sealed the door to the cockpit but we are slicing into it now!"

"Roger that!" Fedorov said.

They ran through the terminal access corridor and into the passenger's bay. Alena was cowering behind several seats, Vorshevsky rushing to meet her. Then, Ultranationalists began to appear from the rear of the plane, causing another fight to ensue. One of the FSO agents were cut down, Alena screaming at the horrid sight. Harkov and Fedorov pushed forward with the other agent, until he was cut down as well.

Suddenly, there was a loud groaning sound from the metal of the airplane. Everyone stopped fighting and looked around, trying to find the source of the sound. There were more creaks and groans, and then, with great shock and suddenness, the plane began to tear apart. The entire rear section of the plane was falling off, taking the Ultranationalists with it. They began to run at them, but the rear split off and flew into the atmosphere.

Harkov recognized the area outside as the Himalayas, the mountain range bordering China and India that contained the legendary mountain, Mount Everest. The sun illuminated the mountains and the snow flying around them, but he had little time to enjoy the sight. Fedorov was clinging to a seat for dear life, his body flying outside. Harkov extended a hand to pull him back, but the seat detached, sending Fedorov flying out into the night and two his death in the mountains. The plane smashed into something and he flew backward into a seat. The last thing he saw was the rear section of the plane plummeting towards him, and the world went black.

Harkov was lying draped over the remains of a chair in an adjacent hallway. Ahead, he saw the burning section of the plane he'd just been in, the snowstorm howling outside. Coughing, he looked around for the President and Alena, but found no trace of them. Another agent, Commander Leonid Pudovkin, staggered into the hall. Upon seeing Harkov, he extended a hand for him to take. His palm was cut and bleeding, his entire body covered with grit.

"Come on, Harkov," he rasped. "We have to find the President."

"What happened to him and Alena?" Harkov asked. "They were with us just a moment ago!"

"The President was thrown free and Alena is with the medics," he explained. "We're calling for an immediate evacuation." He took Pudovkin's hand and they limped out of the crumbling plane. The radio static was screeching throughout the plane, calling for a medevac. The lights flickered and sputtered in the darkened room as they walked down the exit ramp to the snow covered ground below.

As Pudovkin had said, Alena was sitting on a fallen log, tears streaming down her face as she cried for her father whom she thought was dead. Harkov hoped that was not the case, as a country caught in a bloody conflict without a leader was one of the most horrible things possible.

"Get Alena out of here!" Pudovkin ordered to one of the agents. "Harkov, you're with me! We're going to find the President!" Harkov nodded and began to follow Pudovkin, ignoring the pain in his leg so his limp would not affect his ability to fight if it came to doing so.

Plane parts caught fire and exploded, sending flame and metallic debris in all directions. Ahead, Harkov saw an old hangar used in the summer and early winter, the tail of the plane embedded in its side and burning the vestiges of the hangar. The two were shocked at the immense amount of destruction around them, but were relieved with the Russian Hind evac helicopters arrived, shining their spotlights at the FSO agents on the ground.

"Evac choppers are here!" Pudovkin announced, receiving a loud exclamation from all of the surviving agents. They rushed forward to the hangar, hoping to find Vorshevsky. They called out his name, but found no response. Snowplows and vehicles meant for travel through the mountains sat in decommission as snow and ice began to collect on top of their surfaces. Suddenly, gunfire exploded in front of them and bullets flew around the agents.

"Attention all teams, the President's safety has been compromised!" A man yelled into all radio stations in the area. "Code Black! I repeat, this is a Code Black!" They fought the Ultranationalists as they poured into the area, gunfire flying around them.

The battle, however, was short lived and they suffered only a few casualties. Pudovkin ordered the rest of the agents to regroup with the rest of the men at the plane to ensure Alena's survival and evac. Harkov and Pudovkin raced through the trees, calling out Vorshevsky's name until finally, they heard a weak croak of a response. They followed the sound until they found the President lying on his side behind a pile of rocks, blood covering his hands and running down his nose.

A Hind began to land in the clearing nearby, Pudovkin supporting the President as the three advanced forward.

"Are you okay, Mr. President?" Pudovkin asked.

"Never mind me, I'll be fine," Vorshevsky replied. "Where's my daughter?"

"She is being secured, sir," Pudovkin replied.

Harkov advanced to the Hind, slinging his AK47u on his back. He took the handle of the door in both hands and pulling it open. A man with ragged, black hair approached. He wore luxurious clothes and carried a Desert Eagle in his hand. He pointed at Harkov's chest and fired, the bullet smashing into his chest-his armored chest. The force, however, was enough to still send him flying back and into the ground.

"NO!" Pudovkin screamed, pulling out his own P99, only to be shot in the chest as well.

His body crumpled to the ground, but he was not out of the fight yet. He grabbed the P99 and raised it to Makarov's face, but Makarov rolled his eyes and fired a bullet through his skull. His face was obliterated by the force of the bullet in a Desert Eagle, his skull and internal organs within it exposed to Harkov. Tendons hung out of his destroyed face, blood spewing into the snow. The eye ball-still connected to the optical vein, fell into the blood as well.

Vorshevsky gaped at the sight, his eyes wide with fear. Two Ultranationalists secured him from the sides, forcing him to look into the eyes of the man who killed Pudovkin and thought he killed Harkov. The man regarded Vorshevsky with cold, black eyes.

"Do you know who I am?" He asked.

"Yes," Vorshevsky breathed.

"Then you should know what I want."

"You're insane!" Vorshevsky snarled.

"Perhaps," he replied, a smile creeping onto his lips. "Russia _will_ take all of Europe, sir, even if it must stand upon a pile of ashes. Now, do you mind giving me the launch codes so we can get this over with nice and easy?"

"No," Vorshevsky replied defiantly. "You'll never get them." The man had a disappointed look on his face and he exhaled in contempt.

"Luckily, years of serving under the command of the great Imran Zakhaev has taught me that _every_ man has his weaknesses," He looked at the other Ultranationalists gathering around them. "Find the girl." He said. Vorshevsky was thrust inside of the Hind, the man walking behind him. Harkov lunged for the P99 and aimed it at the man, but he turned and gave a swift kick at the gun, knocking it from Harkov's grasp. He smiled and bent over to look Harkov in the eye.

"If you don't know already, my name is Vladimir," he said. "Vladimir Makarov. You seem to be a good soldier. Luckily for me, I am not, and therefore I do not leave loose ends." With that, he shoved the gun to his heart, under his bullet proof vest, and fired.


	13. Back on the Grid

"Back on the Grid"

October 5th, 18:27:40, 2016

Yuri

Task Force 141 - DISAVOWED

Sierra Leone, Africa

"_President Vorshevsky never arrived at Hamburg for the peace summit. With his whereabouts currently unknown, no one is quite sure what this means for the peace treaty-" the TV went blank, Soap, Price, Nikolai, Yuri, Ghost, and the other survivors staring at the black screen. _

_ "Well," Soap said. "It looks like Makarov just played his next hand."_

_ "Taking out the Russian President to ensure that peace between it and the United States was a bold move," Yuri observed. "A good one as well; I would have thought that he would try to kill the President of the United States instead, which truly perplexes me as to his intentions."_

_ "If he puts himself back on the grid," Price said. "He wants it to be known, particularly to us."_

_ "So, where do we start hunting?" Soap asked._

_ "Africa," Yuri interjected. Everyone gave him an odd glance, so he explained. "Makarov has been using a local paramilitary group to move shipments into Sierra Leone. From there, his men will continue to ship whatever he wishes to Morocco and then into Spain." _

_ "Bloody hell," Soap breathed. "He's moving north."_

_ "And right towards our majesty's doorstep," Price concluded solemnly. "What's the cargo we're dealing with?"_

_ "I do not know," Yuri admitted. "But I know that it has important significance to Makarov."_

_ "If he has it, I want it." Price said._

_ "We can use the Sherbra River to get in close to the shipments," Soap said, examining a map of the area. "If this map is accurate to the current date, then there should be a factory in the camp where they store all of the shipments. Unfortunately, the PRF has been waging genocide in the highlands for months; the bastards will be crawling around like bloody gnats around a carcass." _

_ "Makarov would not let this travel go lightly if it didn't serve as a greater purpose to his plans," Price said. "And chances are that the bastard will be there to see the shipments off personally."_

_ "So, what's the plan?" Soap asked._

_ "If he's back on the grid," Price said with finality. "Then so are we."_

Yuri rose slowly from the brown, murky water of the Sherbra River pulling out his suppressed M10 EBR attached with a variable zoom scope for optimal range. Water dripped into the river, sediments and other materials within the drops creating darker spots across the water as the water fell off like rainfall. Yuri took the pin on the side of the sniper, pulled it back, and ensured that the magazine was secured inside of the weapon.

He lowered his right hand in the water and nudged a large, unseen form. He did the same with his left hand, prompting two more figures to rise from the river. The three of them pulled off their breath masks, and surveyed the area. Water dripped in a halo around Price as it fell from his tattered old hat. Price tapped a button on the radio strapped to his right shoulder and put his mouth up to the speaker.

"Nikolai, we're just outside of the village," he reported. "We're moving in now."

"Da, Captain Price," Nikolai responded immediately. "I will pick you up in one hour."

"The factory isn't far from here," Soap observed. "Makarov's cargo should still be there, so if we try our best to keep this silent, we'll get there before he gets the chance to get it off the continent."

"Right," Price said. "Let's move." Yuri and Soap followed Price down the river keeping their arms above the water and minimizing the amount of water that splashed around them.

The golden sunlight streamed through the treetops and illuminated the area around them as well as the jungle behind them. Yuri tapped the trigger of his gun when he noticed a small group of crocodiles basking on the sandy beach to their left. Yellow grass protruded from the ground on the land, weeds growing around the river.

"By the way, Soap," Price said. "I forgot to give you a very straightforward order: try not to die this time." Soap chuckled.

"You just watch your own back, old man," Soap replied.

The group continued down the river, stopping in the weeds when a white pickup truck drove past, dropping off a PRF African Militant. He walked towards them holding an AK47 with an underslung grenade launcher. Soap tightened the strap attached to his EBR and drew his knife. In one swift, precise motion, Soap grabbed the militant and sank the knife into his neck, killing him quickly. The militant struggled and flailed a bit in his final moments, splashing water, but the other militants did not look back to see what it was.

The three of them left the body of the militant there and climbed out of the river and onto the bank, hiding in the tall grass and weeds. Ahead, there were three African men, two of them being the PRF militants and one of them being a young kid.

"Two X-Rays ahead," Soap reported.

"Aye," Price replied. "Slot the bastards." Yuri and Soap shifted positions and aimed their weapons, firing their sniper rifles instantaneously. The bullets flew straight and true, flying through the bodies of the militants. The kid stood up, shocked, and saw them hiding in the grass. His eyes wide with fear, he fled. The three men stalked up the miniature beach, walking up to a small hut. Behind a nearby bamboo fence, a hyena glared at them with black eyes like shadowy pits, barring its massive fangs and snarling at them. Its fur was matted and falling out in places, suggesting the creature was suffering from mange or perhaps ridiculous animal abuse from the locals.

They walked through the hut and found more militants shoving another civilian man around, laughing and jeering at his distress. He was scrawny, his bones showing from beneath his skin, and tears flowed down his cheeks with each punch and shove he received from the militants. One of them began to light a fire, pouring gasoline into it and even more onto the man himself.

"They're going to torch the poor bastard!" Soap whispered.

"Then let us light them up before they light him up," Price said. "Yuri, take the two on the right. Soap, go for the big one handling the kid and I'll get the two on the left." They nodded and took up positions where they could better fire at the men. "Three, two, one, mark!"

The man flung the captive into the fire where he laid screaming. They fired their sniper rifles at the militants, cutting down every last one of the men there. As the last man fell, Yuri ran to the man in the flames, dragging him out and throwing him into the river. Steam flew from his flailing body and his inhuman, bloodcurdling, earsplitting screams etched through the air. He sat in the river gasping and crying, spitting out mud and silt. He looked at the three of them in awe and fear, unsure of their intentions.

Price tossed him a large sheet of cloth lying on a shelf in one of the huts, dipping his head towards the man. His body was covered in hideous burns and scars, evidence of his near-death experience that he would be forced to carry for the remainder of his days. He picked up the sheet, and then said something in his native tongue before slowly stumbling away along the small shoreline.

They left the area, creeping forward and hiding behind a small grove of trees, aiming their weapons out to get a better view of what was ahead. The truck moved on and left the area, but several militants stood laughing at something. They shifted their views to see what they were laughing at, finding two African civilians bound and blinded on top of a raised mound.

A militant tore the leather sacks from their heads, allowing them to see forward, their eyes blinking madly as they tried to adjust their sight to the sudden brightness. The militant walked up to one and struck the side of his face, shouting at him in their foreign tongue. The civilian replied tearfully, choking on his words. The militant rolled his eyes in disgust and shot the kid, blood flying from the other side of his head as the revolver's bullet tore through flesh, tissue, organs, and bone.

He turned to the other man and said-or _asked_-the same thing as he did with the first civilian receiving a defiant response from the second man. He in turn, received the same treatment as the first civilian, leaving two corpses lying on the mount. The militants walked away laughing hysterically and aiming their weapons at the sky, resting them on their shoulders.

The three walked out of the trees and down the opposite end of the road away from where the militants were heading. Their boots thudded heavily on the hard, dry, dirt road. Suddenly, they heard the sound of an approaching car. They dove for cover in the weeds as the same white pickup drove past them, several militants wielding assault rifles and submachine guns hanging onto the sides and riding on the back and even on top of the car.

When it finally passed, they pressed on and moved into an old wooden hut, pressing themselves against the walls as the militants walked past. Two militants up ahead stood guard on a bridge; they made short work of them, Soap and Price hiding them underneath when they got next to it. They climbed up the dried riverbank and moved on to the village. They saw a moving shadow as a militant approached from the alley they needed to go through, Yuri raising his EBR to fire. Price, however, was already moving in, Soap raising his hand for Yuri to stop. He did as he was told and watched as Price drew his knife, pressing his back to the wall. The militant, a man with short hair and large black sunglasses walked up. Price grabbed him and threw him against the wall he had previously had his back to. With that, Price took the knife and slammed the blade into the back of the militants head. Blood sprayed onto the wall and he took the knife from the militant's corpse, letting the body fall to the ground.

They walked into the village, Yuri noticing a sentry guard on top of a poor tower. He stealthily climbed the ladder and snuck behind the militant sitting on a rusting, foldable chair. He put his hand over the militant's mouth and shoved the knife through the man's heart blood flying forth before he jerked and died. Yuri pushed the body into the grass below as his radio began to beep.

"Yuri," Price said. "Give us cover while we work our way to the factory."

"Da, will do Captain," Yuri replied, giving a wave of his gun to his allies below. They returned the salute and began to advance deeper into the village. As they did so, Yuri noticed two militants emerging from a shack ahead of them. Yuri quickly and swiftly cupped his hands to his mouth made a high-pitched bird call. Price and Soap looked around confusedly, and then looked at Yuri.

He pointed ahead at where the militants were and they nodded, hiding behind another shack. Yuri lied on the wooden floor, adjusting his view of the militants. He took a deep breath to steady his aim, zoomed in a bit further with his sniper's variable sight, and fired an armor piercing bullet through the head of a militant. Before the other could react, Yuri fired another bullet through his neck, throwing his head back at a sickening angle until the few tendons holding it together snapped and the severed head rolled in the dirt and mud. Further ahead, another militant with a tame hyena on a bamboo leash exited a hut.

Yuri fired another bullet into the man who quickly collapsed on top of the hyena. It scrambled from underneath him and reared up on its hind legs, then bent over and took his neck in its jaws and dragged it off, leaving a trail of blood.

"Okay, maybe not as tame as I thought," Yuri muttered in disgust. He aimed down the road again and scouted the area. He saw three men approaching from left, all of them carrying AK47 and AK74us. Yuri saw the three of them, knowing that this would be far more difficult than just two enemies. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, centering himself. "Remember what Kasovach taught you," Yuri whispered to himself. "'_Choose the right moment, for if you miss it, it will never return._'"

He watched as the two militants in the front of the group lined up, and Yuri aimed slightly ahead of their exact position, and he fired. The bullet smashed through the heads of the two militants, and the second one Yuri fired flew through the head of the one right behind him before he could make a move or sound. He let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding, sweat rolling down his face and dripping on the wood below him.

He grabbed the radio strapped to his right shoulder and tapped the connection button on the top, putting his mouth next to the speaker.

"The area ahead is clear," Yuri reported. "You should take moment you have while it is ripe."

"Roger that," Captain Price reported. "We're moving in now." Yuri watched as they ran up the road to the large factory entrance at the end. Soap aimed his older model of the M4 Carbine down the streets and alleys as Price picked the lock on the door. He broke in and Soap followed him in.

"Alright, we've secured the factory." Price reported.

"Secured?" Soap asked nervously. "This entire place is bloody empty! Nikolai, are you positive that this is where the shipments are?"

"That is the only factory for several hundred miles in any direction," Nikolai replied. "That's the place. If not there, then Makarov could have had his men move the shipments further into the heart of the village."

"Great," Soap said. "Right into the hornet's nest again."

"Let's keep it from becoming a repeat of Rio, though, shall we?" Nikolai said with a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Aye, let's," Soap said. Suddenly, there was the loud _crack_ of AK47 fire and screaming from the radio connected with Soap and Price's lines. Yuri's fingers clenched around his M10 EBR; he set it on the ground, knowing that he would no longer have use of it, and unslung his AK47 with a suppressor, grip, and red dot sight attached to give him accuracy, optimal range, and stealth if at all needed.

"Yuri, get the bloody hell over here!" Price yelled.

Yuri complied and leapt down from the overlook and began racing towards the factory. PRF militants began streaming out of their homes like vultures swarming towards a particularly large animal carcass. Make that _two_ carcasses. Yuri lifted his AK47, making sure that the butt of the gun rested firmly in between the crook of his arm and the sturdy part of his chest, making it far more preferable for firing to reduce the recoil further despite his use of the grip. He pulled the trigger and the AK47's high velocity armor piercing rounds flew forth, the shells quickly and thoroughly ejecting before the fire out of a modified opening that Yuri himself had set into the gun. The recoil of the fire rate hummed and vibrated against Yuri, sending miniature shockwaves throughout his body that no other weapon than an AK47 did.

The smell of ozone filled his nose and small whiffs of smoke began to rise from his AK47 as the gun fired. Each and every bullet he fired met its mark, the rounds flying through the bodies of some and others remaining stubbornly lodged in the bones, shattering and tearing organs to pieces. Yuri recalled what his late mentor and friend, Kasovach, had patiently taught him.

"_The gun is a powerful weapon_," he had said to Yuri. "_Whoever wields it also wields the powers of life and death in his or her hands. When bullet meets flesh, it is almost certain that the one who is shot will not live. It is uncertain whether or not the bullet will kill instantly, or it the victim will die slowly and suffer_.

"_It is a heavy burden, a weight so to say, for man to hold the forces of life and death in their hands. Only know that if you must ever use a terrible weapon such as this, that it must be of dire consequences and _only_ in self-defense. I dearly hope that such a pupil as yourself never must have to kill a living being_."

"_Even an animal_?" Yuri had asked.

"_Are we not animals ourselves_?" Kasovach had replied. "_We are all animals seeking to survive in a hostile world. If you must kill the animal is most human terms, it is for food and no else, for they are not our foes. If you must kill a predatory animal, it must only be out of self-defense, for we are predators ourselves and we must all respect each other. If it is a human you must confront in the field of battle, then you must know that any weapon, be it gun or blade, will cause extreme pain, and you must deal with the consequences of the killing. Always remember that, and I pray that you never have to wield a weapon and take another's life, my friend_."

_If only you knew what I would do, Kasovach_, Yuri thought, blinking tears from his eyes. _If only I'd told you before Makarov found you_.

The memory lasted a brief instant, yet it felt like an eternity. Yuri's jaw tightened as he fired. Suddenly, there was a loud click emitted from the barrel of the assault rifle and Yuri knew that his magazine was empty. He dove behind a clump of bamboo stalks growing absently next to a shack. He ejected the mag, loaded in a new one, and pulled the pin on the side of the gun. He whipped out and fired at the PRF as they continued toward the factory doors. One managed to get in, but bullets from the inside of the factory flew at him, killing the militant who fell lifelessly in the mud.

Soap and Price emerged, firing at Yuri. He hid behind a wall and yelled to them, "It is me! Hold your fire!" He stepped out with his hands raised to show them who he was. They immediately lowered their guns when they noticed him.

"My most sincere apologies, Yuri," Price said. "I had no idea it was-"

"Never mind that," Yuri interrupted. "Let's get out of here, shall we?"

"Aye, and find out where Makarov's shipments are." Soap said, aiming his M4A1 down the street.

"Exactly," Yuri confirmed. Bullets flew past them, Soap returning fire. They dove for cover behind the shacks, exchanging fire with the PRF. Yuri ran up a flight of wooden stairs to the roof where the PRF were racing to flank them.

Yuri fired into them before they could make it, but more of the militants dropped down from the roof, firing at him. Crouching down behind an upturned bench, Yuri unclipped a frag grenade and tossed it over to the PRF after holding it-or 'cooking' it as some would say-for three seconds. That meant that there were only two seconds for the grenade to land and detonate in the middle of their group, leaving them without any time to pick up the grenade and toss it back at him.

There were a few startled screams and then the grenade detonated, showering Yuri with shrapnel, wood shards, and-most unpleasantly-gore. Yuri stood and ran to the other end of the roof, crouching down at the corner. He aimed his AK47 down the street, firing it at the PRF while Soap and Price continued down the street. When the last of the PRF were eliminated, Yuri dropped down from the roof to join them.

The trio climbed a ladder and stalked further into the village. Suddenly, a large truck entered the street ahead, firing a heavy machine gun at them. Yuri shot the gunner, then transitioned quickly to fire through the windshield at the man driving.

"Yuri, get on that tactical!" Price screamed.

"On it, comrade!" Yuri replied. He raced forward and on top of the truck. The dead militant lay slumped over the gun, so Yuri dragged his body from the gun and to the ground. The PRF began to enter their section of the village, firing at them. Yuri pulled back the large pin and stiffened his arms, grabbing the dual grips. He pressed his thumb on the trigger, the massive gun firing into the militants.

Yuri was surprised by the excess recoil; he knew that it would have more than any gun he'd ever held, but this much? It was unimaginable. The massive bullets tore through the men, obliterating their bodies and tearing through the shacks and homes around them. More began to come from the left, so Yuri planted his foot on a pedal and the other he slammed on the metallic floor of the truck, turning it. He opened fire on them before they could even fire a shot. Another tactical came down the street, but Yuri fired several shots into the engine, causing it to explode.

Suddenly, there was a loud pop-hiss sound and Yuri looked up to see an RPG flying towards him. His eyes widened and he tried to jump off, but the rocket hit him before he could do so. The tactical flew high into the air, throwing Yuri into the ground, the tactical smashing into the ground next to him. His vision was red and full of blood and grit, his arms wounded and bleeding from various cuts. He coughed up dirt and blood into the ground in front of him. He saw the tactical in flames, popping and sputtering as the flames took hold of the vehicle, throwing shrapnel around the area.

"Yuri!" Soap yelled, taking his wrist and helping him up. "Get up! Come on, we have to move!" Yuri blinked and grunted, making a feeble nod. He reached for his AK47 followed Soap as he ran through the village.

The shacks began to explode around them as mortar shells bombarded them from somewhere else in the village.

"Keep moving!" Soap yelled.

"Where's Price?" Yuri called.

"No idea!" Soap replied, jumping over rubble. "Price, where are you?"

"Up here!" Price replied from above. They look up to see him running on the rooftops alongside them.

"Get down you crazy bastard!" Soap yelled. "You're a clear shot for the mortars!" Price leaped down and took the lead. "There's a ladder we can use to get up over here and get to the other side of the village!"

Soap and Yuri nodded, following him to the ladder. They ran up on the rooftops when suddenly, a mortar crashed into the shack Yuri was standing on. He cried out as he fell down to the destroyed ground below.

"YURI!" Soap screamed.

"I'm alright!" Yuri yelled, picking up his AK47. Price and Soap dropped into the shack with him. They turned to see two militants rushing them with AK47s. They opened fire on them, their bodies dropping to the ground below. They rushed forward and-quite by accident-found the tower that the mortars were being fired from. Yuri raised his AK47 and fired at the PRF militants manning the mortars.

He rushed forward and climbed the tower, loading several mortars into the launcher. A PRF convoy began to move down the street towards them, firing AK47s and AK74us. Yuri adjusted the aim, cocked the pin, and fired the mortar. The bomb flew into the sky and then flew straight down into their group. There was a massive explosion and then the convoy was scattered in chaos. Yuri loaded and fired several more mortars until their disarrayed, fragmented convoy lay in tatters.

Yuri walked down to Soap and Price, rejoining them. Price nodded approvingly and then motioned for them to follow him to an old sewer system. Soap began working on the gate latch on the pipeline, Yuri aimed his gun around, and Price began tapping through channels, trying to raise someone else. Soap opened the gate and the three climbed in.

"Nikolai," Price contacted. "The factory was off intel. Is there anywhere else that Makarov would have his materials at?"

"There's a landing zone just outside of the old church house," Nikolai replied. "If it's not there, then the materials are already on their way to Europe and Makarov will be with them."

"Wait, Makarov's here?" Price exclaimed. Yuri's eyes widened and his heart raced.

_It is time for revenge_, Yuri thought.

"Da, he's with the PRF now. I'd take a shot at him, but there are too many shooters below."

"Never mind that," Soap said. "You just stay out of trouble, old friend." Nikolai chuckled.

"I'll bear that in mind," he replied, closing the link.

"I hope that he's right," Soap said.

"He's never failed us before, and I doubt he's going to start now." Price said with a tone that left for no disagreement. They emerged from the sewer system and walked into the village. Once again, they were forced to open fire on upon the PRF. At one point, they came across a locked door.

"I don't think you should do this, Soap," Price warned. "You only just got better."

"Oh, stop your worrying, old man." Soap dismissed. He backed up and sprinted forward, slamming his left shoulder into the door, knocking it down with brute force. Soap grunted in pain but shook it off, hefting his rifle. They continued on through the marketplace, bullets flying through food and clothing hanging by strings around the dilapidated shacks. At the top of a hill beyond the marketplace stood the church house.

They broke down the door after shooting down the hinges, firing on the PRF inside. Some civilians worshipping cried out and hid behind the pillars and the altar. They broke down the door at the far left side and Yuri was immediately tackled by something. Massive, slavering jaws lunged for him and caught his arm. He howled in pain, but held fast, keeping the beastly hyena at bay. He drew a sidearm from his side and aimed it at the militants, Soap and Price helping. A large Russian Hind began to lift off from behind the militants, so Yuri quickly shoved the pistol underneath the chin of the hyena and fired several rounds into its brain. The crazed eyes of the animal rolled to the back of its head and its jaws slackened. At that point, however, the Hind had already flown off.

Blood oozed from cuts on his wrist and lower arm, some of it black. He seethed and tore a piece of cloth from his shirt, wrapping it around his wound. Price swore and struck a table nearby in fury; they'd not only lost Makarov, but the shipments as well. There were still crates in the area, however. Soap opened one up, but there was nothing inside. He went up to the other crates, but they were all vacant.

"They're empty," Soap reported. "What do you think he was after?"

"No idea," Price said, walking off back to the church. "We'll just have to ask the bastard when we find him." Soap nodded and followed in behind him. Yuri, however, found something lying in one of the crates. Intrigued, he picked it up and examined it. It was a golden medal with the insignia of the Russian Spetsnaz and a single word-no, a name-engraved on the outer edges of it: KASOVACH.

"Kasovach," Yuri breathed. He stared at the medal, his eyes trained on the name. He rubbed his thumb across it. He closed his eyes and tightened his jaw. He clenched his fist, breathing out of his nose. He then took the radio from his shoulder and tapped the button on the side.

"Nikolai, we've lost Makarov," Yuri said. "Come pick us up at my coordinates."

"Da, will do, my friend," Nikolai replied. "What is it? You sound different."

"It's Kasovach," Yuri replied. "I found his medal in one of Makarov's crates." Nikolai was silent for a time, and then he spoke.

"We will talk, my friend," Nikolai said. "Not now, but soon. I promise."

"When will it all end, comrade?" Yuri asked, his voice quivering.

"Soon, it will," Nikolai replied. "Yuri, what happened was not your fault. None of it was, do you understand?"

"I doubt that every time you say it," Yuri replied. "Kasovach would understand; I know he would."

"No one can ever understand what I did to them," Yuri said. "Look, I do not want to talk about it now; can you just come get us?"

"Da, I will come," Nikolai said. "Do not fear, my friend; revenge will be ours."

**I'm really sorry for taking so long to update guys! I know I used to update all the time with my Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare and Modern Warfare 2 stories, but school and problems with a recent foot injury from Track has had me even more preoccupied as well as the fact that I'm making a machinima with my friends, so I hope you guys aren't too annoyed with me and I'm doing my best to deliver quality chapters for you guys, including the new background I'm creating for Yuri. It'll mean a lot to me if you guys can all take the time to review the chapter (or the story so far) and tell me how I'm doing. Thanks for your support and patience! **

**-WOLF OUT**


	14. Mind the Gap

**I'm really sorry about not updating earlier guys! I was planning on getting this out the weekend after my last update but I'm in a creative writing class and I'm starting to receive story assignments that are taking a ton of time to construct which makes it even more difficult to update on this story! I luckily have finished all the acting for my Machinima and I'm rendering all the video clips together (should be finished in a few weeks) so I hope that I'll have more time to update this story! **

**-WOLF**

"Mind the Gap"

October 6th, 4:11:37, 2016

SGT Marcus Burns

22nd Special Air Service (SAS) Regiment

Canary Wharf, London

/ / / Message Interception in Progress / / /

/ / / Origin: French / / /

/ / / Decoding Encryption Code – Decoding Imminent / / /

/ / / Trace Source – Fregata Industries / / /

/ / / Decoding Process Complete – Forward Message / / /

/ / / Forward to – UK / / /

"Sir," an MI6 officer reported, looking up from his console. "The French have just forwarded us an intercepted message concerning suspicious materials on their way for British soil."

"Have they identified the vessel?" the SAS Chief asked.

"Negative, sir," the officer replied. "The call came from a number on the watch list of Fregata Industries."

"I want you to wake up em-eye-five and notify them that they are facing an imminent threat!" The Chief ordered. He nodded and called MI5. The director asked for an authentication code, so he replied to her with the code she requested. When she confirmed it as authentic, he brought up the view screen so the Chief could talk to the Director face-to-face.

"Alright, gentlemen, what do we know?" She asked.

"Not anything particularly solid," the Chief replied. "Special Branch is currently sweeping up all known persons of interest but I would advise we bring in the SAS to investigate Tier One threats." She nodded.

"Can you patch me through to Hereford?"

"Yes, ma'am," He replied. He nodded to the officer on the console who once again went through the authentication process with their contact leader in Hereford. An older man with a deep Scottish accent responded.

"Ma'am, I understand that we have unknown hostiles expecting a package?" She shot a glare at the officer but quickly composed herself and responded.

"MI5 has identified several possible points of entry. Be advised, the nature of the cargo is currently unknown."

"Roger," Baseplate replied. "My team is making ready; we will be out within the hour. Don't worry, ma'am, we'll put a stop to it."

"Baseplate, we're online," Sergeant Wallcroft of the Special Air Service reported. "It's on you."

"Roger that, Bravo Six," The Scottish commander at Hereford replied. "There are multiple trucks at the docks at the Charity World Wide complex. At this time we believe they are our target."

"That's a dodgy way of doing charity work," Wallcroft commented.

"Aye; wait, the trucks are leaving the docks right now!" Baseplate replied.

"So did our source mention what they're transporting?" Wallcroft asked.

"Intel on this op show the shipments came from HV targets overseas. You should be advised: one of the trucks is still at the docks."

"I don't get it," Wallcroft said. "Why don't we just get a spectre in there and sink the whole bloody thing in the river right now?"

"That's the bad thing, Bravo Six" Baseplate grumbled. "They're too high value. For now, you're going to have to make do with Vulture's birds."

"Well let's just get this thing done and dusted." Wallcroft said.

"FLIR is picking up heat signatures in the warehouses in your area," Baseplate warned. "You'll have to clear those buildings before you get to that truck."

"My team will take Warehouse One," Wallcroft volunteered. "Bravo Nine will deal with the other. Well, our window is closing fast and we're ready to kick this off."

"Copy that," Baseplate said. "All teams, this is Baseplate: you've got the nod. I repeat, the mission is a go!"

Sergeant Marcus Burns dropped down from the stone wall and into the alley with Wallcroft, Corporal Griffin, and two other SAS operatives that Burns did not know. He pulled his MP5 Sub Machinegun out and pulled the pin to ensure its firing capability was set on. He then clicked a button on the top of his Holographic Red Dot Sight to activate it. After that, he pulled a suppressor from his pack and attached it to the barrel of the MP5, screwing it on until it would go no further.

Wallcroft and Griffin knew each other from several past missions, even taking on operations with old legends like Captain Price and Captain MacTavish. The last time they saw those two was on some ship in the Bering Strait; they rarely talked about the two anymore. Not since they discovered the treason they'd committed. Burns himself was shaken by the fact that the two would betray the entire Task Force 141 and then murder the commander of the United States Military, and then kill General Shepherd in cold blood. Unspeakable!

They were dead, though; as well as their informant and pilot, Nikolai. Burns had met Nikolai before and was saddened to know that he had assisted in Price and Soap's coup against the world. Rumor had it that they were even in league with Makarov before they were killed. Burns wondered if Nikolai was manipulated somehow by their evil intent. If so, he cursed Price and MacTavish even more. Some 'legends' they turned out to be!

The rain from the monsoon was eastern monsoon began to pick up, the wind howling. This was unfortunate and fortunate in separate ways. It was unfortunate that they had to brave it, but fortunate that it would mask their approach unless seen at near point-blank range with the naked eye or thermal scope.

"Let's get on with it, mates," Wallcroft said, leading the way down the alley.

Trash and mistreated and misused items littered the alleys like most modern cities. Up ahead, a man exited the warehouse. He muttered something in a foreign language that sounded either Hungarian or Russian; Burns did not care enough to decipher between the two. The man raised a lighter to the cigar placed firmly in between his lips, lighting it. As soon as the flame touched the cigar, Burns fired a single shot into his head. He lurched forward, his head thrown back, and he collapsed in a large puddle on the alley. The puddle began to turn crimson as the blood filled it. Burns examined the insignia on the man's chest: a Russian Spetsnaz symbol with a slash through it.

"Ultranationalists?" Wallcroft inquired.

"It was appear that way, mate," Burns replied.

"Baseplate, are you getting this?"

"Aye," the commander replied, his voice a growl of contempt. "I've had more trouble with these bastards than you can imagine."

"Next move, sir?" Wallcroft asked.

"Continue with the mission as planned," he replied. "I'll get on with the details for those Ultranationalists." He cut the link and they continued through the factories and old buildings. When they came across any Ultranationalists, they cut them down swiftly and silently. The rain fell harder and the wind increased in ferocity, howling outside with malicious intent. The trees were bending at near-unnatural angles, the rain covering whole centimeters outside. It wouldn't be long before it became inches.

When the SAS made it to the top of the old office complex, they were met with more and more of the Ultranationalist invaders. Burns became more worried than he'd ever been in his life. He'd faced foreigners before, but never rebellious foreigners whom belonged to no flag, ideals, or people, and never with them invading bloody _London_.

Burns took point through the offices, meeting an Ultranationalist in one of the hallways. Before he could react, Burns-in one quick, swift motion-drew his tactical knife and plunged it through the man's neck, curving it up and twisting it within his skull, churning his brain killing him in milliseconds. He felt no pain as he died. Once through there, they continued to the printing rooms where the Ultranationalists were manning the computers and monitors. They walked into the doorway, Burns crouching down and aiming his MP5 at the man closest to him. Wallcroft aimed at the man further away and they fired simultaneously, bullets flying through them and killing the men instantly.

Wallcroft ordered him to move and once again Burns took point, Griffin aiming his gun over Burns' shoulder, Wallcroft taking the rear and covering their backs. They moved up the staircase and there was a small bleep on Wallcroft's radio. The three of them stopped halfway up the staircase, listening in on the radio channel.

"Wallcroft here, what is it?" He said, holding his thumb on the button.

"Bravo Six, this is Sierra One," a man reported. "There are two hostiles on the top floor of your building. Should we take the shot?"

"Affirmative, Sierra," Wallcroft replied. "Send them."

They walked into the next room to see the two Ultranationalists that Sierra One was talking about. One of them turned to look at them, but a sniper shot flew through his head before he could react. The sound of the shattering glass and crumpling body alerted the other man, but Griffin fired three shots into his chest, throwing him back against the window behind him facing the docks. As he crashed out of the window, they heard the siren go off-the signal for all SAS teams to advance.

They leapt out the window and once more into the monsoon, firing at the Ultranationalists in the parking lot. Four SAS armored transports screeched to a halt at the main gates, a fifth smashing through them. Troops began to swarm out of them, but one of trucks exploding as an RPG impacted on it. One of the SAS troops were killed by the blast, another crushed as the car flew on top of him.

Burns heard someone scream "man down!" and he tightened his jaw as well as his grip on his MP5. The Ultranationalist force was small, but well hidden, entrenched in positions in buildings around the area where they set up heavy machine guns to fire at them. The crates, however, proved useful in the means of cover. Whatever was inside of them, the Ultranationalists avoided firing at them. That could work both ways: either they were filled with something valuable that didn't mean anything to the SAS but something to them, or filled with something volatile and dangerous that would pose a threat to the SAS as well as the Ultranationalists. Neither side decided to take any chances.

Helicopters flew overhead, firing their heavy machineguns into the buildings, cutting down the men inside and killing them, some buildings collapsing on top of them. Soon, the area was dead silent save for rubble falling and rain smashing on the ground around them. The helicopters activated their spotlights, surveying the area and allowing the SAS a better view of the docks. A lone truck was still stationed at the end, the driver dead and the ignition lit.

Wallcroft, Griffin, Burns, and five more SAS aimed their weapons at the back of the truck. Burns walked up to the lock, shooting the keyhole, the chain falling to the ground. Burns grabbed the handle with one hand, the other holding his MP5 at the ready. Wallcroft nodded and he took a breath. Burns flung open the door and whipped into it, aiming his MP5 inside. He opened the other one and turned on his flashlight attached to the bottom of his gun.

"There's nothing here," Burns reported, defeated.

"Baseplate, this is Bravo 6," Wallcroft called. "The lorry is empty. What's the status on the rest of those trucks?"

"Bravo 6, be advised, there are-" Suddenly, an RPG rocket flew into one of the helicopters. It spun out of control and smashed into a nearby building. The propellers churned against the bricks and reinforced steel, breaking off and causing a reactive explosion that engulfed the entire helicopter. Shrapnel and body parts from the men inside rained around them, Burns pulling himself off the ground, his ears ringing and blood roaring within them.

"Tangos on the catwalk!" Wallcroft cried. "Vulture 2, sort them out!"

"Copy that, Bravo!" Vulture 2 replied. Then, another rocket propelled grenade smashed into it and it, too, flew into the ground, exploding in a massive ball of flame and shrapnel.

"All air support, bug off!" Burns yelled into his radio. "There're to many anti-air troops down here! Get out of here now!"

"Roger that, we're moving out!" He did, but not before the Little Bird fired three volleys of rockets into one of the storage facilities and released a long stream of machinegun fire at the Ultranationalists.

The surviving SAS pushed forward, taking out the Ultranationalists as they slowly retreated backward towards the scrap yards behind the docking platforms. They saw more troops carrying the crates away, the Ultranationalists giving them cover.

"Shit!" Wallcroft growled. "They're getting away!"

"Roger that, Bravo 6," the last helicopter pilot said. "I've got no one else on my bird."

"What?" Burns asked.

"You better take this opening!" He yelled. They looked up and saw the Little Bird-plunging down towards the Ultranationalists. Its rockets and machine guns were firing.

"NO!" Wallcroft yelled. "PULL UP! PULL THE FUCK UP!" It didn't, and soon, there was a massive explosion as the Little Bird smashed into the ground, killing what must have been at least two hundred of the Ultranationalists. One man sacrificed himself to kill two hundred men threatening his country. Burns made a mental note to remember to tell the men and Hereford about that.

"He gave us a chance," Wallcroft said. "Let's go!" They rushed after the Ultranationalists, firing at them. Unfortunately, there were still more men firing back. There were trucks in the subway that they were loading into, more of them getting on one of the trains.

"They're going into the tube!" Griffin yelled.

"Baseplate, the contacts are falling back into the tube," Wallcroft reported. "We're proceeding on foot and following them!"

"Roger that, Bravo 6," the commander replied. "I'm sending in our birds to find out where they're headed!" The trucks took off down the subway, leaving two behind in their haste. The SAS got inside and pursued them down the subway. Burns got on the back and fired at the trucks. They maneuvered around the subway, trying to avoid the bullets. Their attempts were in vain.

The trucks spun out of control and crashed as their drivers were killed. The two trucks of SAS followed the train, firing through the windows at the men inside. They fired back, popping up from the seats to return fire. Griffin turned the truck to follow alongside it. Then, there was a light at the end of the second tunnel.

"FUCK! There's another train incoming!" Wallcroft cried. Burns' eyes widened and he tensed himself to jump, but at the last moment, Griffin veered to the right to escape it. "A bit close there, mate!" Wallcroft snarled.

"Sod off! We're still in one piece!" Griffin replied. They continued firing at the train and the men on the train firing back, bullets flying around the subway and RPGs blowing gaping holes in the walls and collapsing sections of it. They even raced past a large group of civilians waiting for a train, all of them ducking and screaming as they flew forward.

"Baseplate, we need to know where they're bloody heading!" Wallcroft yelled.

"Bravo Six, all metro exits from your location are located in the city, over." Baseplate replied. They continued following the train, trading fire outside of the subway. They narrowly dodged another train and finally, air support flew in. The machine guns fired heavy rounds through the cabins, destroying the train bit by bit.

They flew back into the subway and continued firing at them.

"Why the bloody hell is that driver still breathing?" Wallcroft cried.

"I can't get a shot yet!" The Bravo 9 leader said. He drove the truck further ahead just in front of the train. "Wait, I see him! I see the drive-" suddenly, L86 fire flew from the front of the train and into the truck.

"MAN DOWN!" One of the soldiers screamed. "MAN DOWN!" The truck veered to the right and directly into the path of the train. The truck flew underneath it, crushing the men inside before exploding. The train car broke off, the rest of it halting back and tipping over. The front car rose upward and flew ahead, tumbling through the subway. It began to roll, smashing through the stone pillars and bringing the entire ceiling down. Then, another train came. Wallcroft ordered everyone to get out, but it was too late.

The train, their truck, and the dislodged train care impacted. There was a massive explosion of light and then everything went black for Burns.

**Forty Minutes Later**

Burns faded in and out of consciousness. He faintly heard the sound of burning and Wallcroft's radio nearby, Baseplate trying to raise them. He looked to his left and saw Griffin's lifeless form, a shard of metal plunged deep through his chest. More rubble and metal embedded within his body, blood pouring onto the ground.

Sorrowfully, Burns dragged himself to his feet and limped along until he found his MP5. A P90 SMG lied on the ground nearby. He went over and picked that up as well, strapping it to his back. He walked around the area, searching for Wallcroft-or at least, his corpse. Burns was sickened by the thought of trying to find his body to take the radio and his ammunition, but it was essential to the mission that he have contact with command and ammo to fight the Ultranationalists.

Unfortunately, his terrible limp seemed to be preventing him from doing so. He saw a shadowy form approaching him, an L86 LSW Light Machinegun in his hands. Burns raised his gun and pointed it at the figure.

"Put your-put your hands-up," Burns gasped. "Or I-I'll fi-fire on-y-y-you."

"Burns, are you alright?" He asked. Instantly, Burns lowered the gun as Wallcroft approached.

"Yeah, y-yeah I-I think I'm a-alright." Burns replied.

"Where's Griffin?" He asked. Burns' heart lurched and he looked at Wallcroft, shaking his head. Wallcroft's eyes clouded with pain-he and Griffin had worked together for over a decade and now he was gone. "So be it. Come on, we still have a mission to complete."

"BRAVO SIX!" The radio roared. "WHERE THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU?"

"The train's dug in under Westminster," Wallcroft told Baseplate. "Those bastards were using it as transport."

"Roger that," Baseplate said. "Be advised, the trucks are headed in your direction. Get topside and RV with Bravo Two."

"Copy. . . that," Wallcroft said wearily. "Come on, Burns; it's just you and me now." They climbed through the train wreckage and began to hear thick Russian accents from beyond it. "Baseplate, there are Ultranationalist contacts in Westminster station!"

"Copy that, Bravo Six!" Baseplate replied. "Troops will be there to assist you, ETA ten minutes!"

"Tell them to haul their arses over here!" Wallcroft yelled. He turned to Burns, a maniacal grin on his face. "Let's give these bastards a proper British welcome!" Burns smiled and nodded, the two walking-and limping-forward. The Ultranationalists were dug in tight, but they weren't a match for two armed, armored, and fury-filled SAS soldiers.

They pushed forward through the station, driving the Ultranationalists back. They rushed up the escalators to try and escape them, but Burns and Wallcroft were too quick. They ran into the cross way and were intercepted by more SAS soldiers. They put their weapons on the ground and raised their hands in the air.

"Great timing, mates!" Wallcroft said. He and Burns walked up the stairs to the main street. Hundreds of civilians were still in the area, watching the SAS group up at the head of the main road. Burns and Wallcroft took positions with them and aimed their weapons down the road. Suddenly, one of the damned trucks screeched down the road.

The soldiers fired their weapons at the truck, killing the driver and causing the truck to tip over and skid to a halt. Police raced around it, aiming their side arms as the SAS aimed their automatic rifles and SMGs.

"Baseplate, the lorry's down," Wallcroft reported. "We're secure. What's the status on the others?" When he received no response, he tried again. "Baseplate, _come in_! _Baseplate, where are the bloody trucks_!"


	15. Davis Family Vacation

**WARNING: THE FOLLOWING CHAPTER IS EXTREMELY DISTURBING AND COULD BE FOUND OFFENSIVE TO READERS. DISCRETION IS ADVISED.**

**-WOLF**

"Davis Family Vacation"

October 6th, 12:00 pm, 2016

London, England

Day 3

"_Great timing, mates!" Wallcroft said. He and Burns walked up the stairs to the main street. Hundreds of civilians were still in the area, watching the SAS group up at the head of the main road. Burns and Wallcroft took positions with them and aimed their weapons down the road. Suddenly, one of the damned trucks screeched down the road. _

_ The soldiers fired their weapons at the truck, killing the driver and causing the truck to tip over and skid to a halt. Police raced around it, aiming their side arms as the SAS aimed their automatic rifles and SMGs._

_ "Baseplate, the lorry's down," Wallcroft reported. "We're secure. What's the status on the others?" When he received no response, he tried again. "Baseplate, come in! Baseplate, where are the _bloody trucks_!"_

"Okay, just a sec," I said. Jessica nodded patiently. I fumbled around with the video camera, trying to focus it and figure out how to use the damn thing. I tried using the big red button but that just turns it off rather than record for some odd reason. It must be the one and only camera in the world this jacked up.

Finally, I figured out how to do it. The red recoding blip activated at the top of the screen and they came into focus. I gave Jessica a 'thumbs up' and she began talking.

"Okay, so this is day three," she said, holding our daughter's hand. It was her sixth birthday tomorrow, and they came all the way to England to make it great for her. She was incredibly joyous and cheerful throughout the entire trip. "And we are-" she turned to look at her. "Sarah, tell Daddy where we're going, sweetie!"

"We're going to Big Ben!" She exclaimed.

"That's right, honey, we're going to Big Ben!" She said happily. She turned and pointed to a large Clock Tower. "There it is! Honey, are you getting this?"

"Yeah, it's all here!" I replied. Sarah's eyes widened as she saw a flock of birds at the street corner.

"Look, Mommy!" She exclaimed, twirling towards them. "Birds! Mommy there's birds!"

"Wow, you're very hyper today!" She said. I smiled and started moving forward to follow them. A charity truck drove up to the street corner and parked there. The driver leapt out from the seat and sprinted down the sidewalk. I found that weird, but he had a case in his hands so I supposed he was simply running off to a nearby store to give whatever was inside the truck to them. Tight schedules, I suppose.

The birds scattered as she danced within their group. She was so perfectly happy and her birthday tomorrow would be even better.

"Yeah, that's your daughter," Jessica said. She turned to look at me, a large, loving smile on her face. "You know she gets that from you."

The next thing I knew, I was on the ground, blood and flame roaring in my ears. The camera fell away and blood-my blood-spilled on the ground. Jessica's lifeless, bleeding form lay only a few meters away, her limbs torn and destroyed. Sarah's body was little more than a blackened, smoldering corpse. There were screams echoing throughout the city, people running away. The truck was annihilated and emitting green, billowing gas. I tried to take in a shallow, shaking breath, but gagged and coughed, blood flowing from my mouth.

A red haze obscured my vision and I convulsed in a bloody heap, soaked in my own blood. My arm was missing, torn from the elbow. I could see the shattered bone protruding from the mutilated stump, the marrow from within in leaking out onto the ground. My vision faded into blackness. I knew that it was all over.

**Well guys, that wraps up Act 1 of Modern Warfare 3! What do you guys think? I'd really appreciate some reviews from you guys! I'll also try to update by next weekend; I can't make any promises, but I'll do my best!**

**-WOLFXVSLAYER667**


	16. If Everyone Cared

**Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 3 - The Final Battle**

**Act 2:**

**On the Pursuit**

"If Everyone Cared"

October 7th - 7:03:46, 2016

PVT James Ramirez

Wolf Squadron – Former Hunter 2-1

Los Angeles, California

"_Not to pretty, is it, Sergeant Foley?" Overlord growled, shutting off the video transmission. The video was a mere fifty four seconds, but it was the content that disturbed the hell out of the three Rangers and one Marine in the briefing chambers. Private Claire Sanchez put a hand over her mouth, stopping herself from gasping in horror._

_ "Now you know what the Ultranationalists are going to do," Overlord said._

_ "Wait, sir," Dunn said. "Just what the hell's an Ultranationalist?"_

_ "Do you soldiers recall the war five years ago?" He asked. They nodded in unison and he continued. "That war was fought against political extremists called Ultranationalists. They planned on overthrowing the Russian government and taking out the United States when they were finished. We haven't heard from them in five years. They sprung up again when Makarov slaughtered the civvies at Moscow. Only a few of us know what actually happened and that Americans didn't do this._

_ "Now before you all start, we've already tried talking to the Russians. They still believe that America did it. Why? Because a damn American was with them, that's why. Makarov murdered him and left the body for the Russians to find and that's what got us in the world of shit that we currently inhabit."_

_ "So what do you want us to do, sir?" Ramirez asked._

_ "What I want you four to do is to go to Los Angeles. The Russians are staging damn large forces there and-"_

_ "Wait," Claire-no, Sanchez, Ramirez thought. It's Sanchez, get it right, bro, - interrupted. "I'm not being rerouted with the Marines?"_

_ "That's a negative, Private Sanchez," Overlord replied. See, he gets it right! Ramirez thought, annoyed. Why the hell can't I? "As you four are already acquainted and your entire regiment's terminated, I believe that your cooperation with this will prove helpful."_

_ "What's 'this', exactly, sir?" Foley questioned._

_ "You're no longer going to report to the Rangers, the USMC, or any other level of command," Overlord responded. "You work for me now. The Task Force 141 was purged for conspiring against us, so I need men-and women-to work for me directly as my personal Special Ops team. Anyhow, I don't have time to explain at the moment. I have more matters to attend to right now. There's a Black Hawk waiting for you on the southeast side of this facility. You'll be briefed by Colonel Ackerson on the way. When you get there, I'll maintain constant radio contact with you four. Oh, yeah, and you're not Hunter 2-1 anymore-it's Wolf Squadron. You four officially don't exist anymore. Dismissed." _

_ Overlord left the four of them standing there, dumbfounded, when Dunn suddenly broke the silence._

_ "Special Ops, Sarge?" Foley nodded. Dunn, looking quite triumphant, closed his hands into fists and held them to his chest, walking away to the adjacent door. "Hell fucking yes, brother!" _

_ "What the hell kind of a name is Wolf Squadron?" Ramirez asked._

_ "I have no idea," Cla-no, Sanchez-replied. "But hey, looks like we're still going to be seeing each other around, eh?" Ramirez smiled and nodded. _

_ "What do you think, Sarge?" Ramirez asked._

_ "I think it's going to be a fucking long time before I get to retire," he replied bitterly._

"Ramirez, man that fifty!" Sergeant Foley cried over the hail of gunfire. AEK-971 Standard Issue Armor Piercing rounds flew down the street, smashing into the houses they took cover behind. In the middle of the road, a large truck sat with a fifty caliber machine gun mounted on the back. The reason for its being unmanned was clearly inscribed with the horribly mutilated corpse resting on the ground behind it.

Dunn and Foley hid behind one house, Ramirez and Sanchez hiding behind another across the street. Sanchez swore as she tried to eject a magazine from her jammed M16A4 Assault Rifle, finally managing to tear it out and insert a new mag. A thick plume of dust and smoke rose from the street, making visibility nearly zero.

Ramirez heard his name being called, but couldn't hear the rest. He called across the street to Foley, requesting him to repeat it. Foley did so, but and RPG flew past the truck and into a house further down. Ramirez called to Foley again, but one again, the rain of gunfire and explosions drowned out the sound of Foley's voice. Ramirez yanked the radio from his shoulder, clicking the communication tab.

"What's that, Sarge?" He called.

"Ramirez, I need you to man the fifty on the truck at your twelve!" He replied. Sanchez's eyes widened in shock and Ramirez lowered the radio, swearing under his breath. He gave Foley a what-the-hell-have-you-been-smoking? look. He clicked the button.

"No disrespect, sir," Ramirez said. "But: _are you out of your fucking mind?_"

"Dunn and I are going to provide suppressing fire," he said. "Your girlfriend can circle around and hit them with the XM25." Ramirez's ears burned with embarrassment when Foley said that, and he was glad that his helmet covered them. That wouldn't look too good in front of the squad, much less Sanchez.

"Wrong term to use for Private Sanchez, sir," he said. "But I'll go with your fucking insane idea and do it. Sanchez, you got that?"

"Yeah, I do," she replied, strapping her M16A4 to her back and drawing her XM25. Her green eyes locked with his, a burning sternness smoldering in them. "You just be careful, okay?"

"I'll try," Ramirez reassured her. She nodded and ran off deeper into the neighborhood. "This is fucking crazy." He strapped his M4A1 Assault Carbine to his back and unclipped a Flashbang from his belt. He unpinned it and raised the small canister in the air in a signal to Dunn and Foley. Foley nodded Ramirez took a breath and threw the Flashbang over the roof.

He heard the screeching sound of the Flashbang go off and immediately began to sprint across the street to the fifty cal. As soon as he reached it, he ducked in cover threw a frag grenade in their direction. Once again, he waited for the explosion and leaped onto the heavy machine gun. He reached to the right side of the gun, pulled the pin back, shoved it forward, pulled on the lower lever, planted his foot on safety mechanism and the other on the floor, aimed, and opened fire into the Russian group.

As promised, Dunn and Foley ran up as soon as Ramirez began firing, exchanging fire with the Russians. They continued to pour out, firing AK74u SMGs, AEK-971, and traditional AK47 Assault Rifles at them. Ramirez took note of the rapidly dwindling ammunition cartridge, making sure to pace his shots and fire in short controlled bursts.

Several long, agonizing minutes passed without any sign of Sanchez. Ramirez began to worry that she was wounded, captured, or even worse-no, no he wouldn't think of that. Nothing had happened to her, he was sure of it. He continued firing at the Russians when suddenly, they turned around and fired into the houses.

Ramirez could have sworn his heat stopped for a few moments. He leaped off the gun and ran to the Russians, loading a grenade into his M203 Underslung Grenade Launcher. Foley yelled at him to stop, but Ramirez paid him no heed. He did not listen to Dunn either. His sole focus was on finding Sanchez. In a split second, Ramirez aimed his M203 at an approximate twenty degree angle and fired into the group of Russians.

The grenade flew into the group and killed the Russians within milliseconds. The shrapnel and gravel hit them, sinking into their flesh and wounding the ones that weren't dead already. Ramirez switched back to his M4A1 and shot them swiftly before running down between two houses.

"CLAIRE!" He called. He searched frantically for her but didn't receive any response. He ran through the woods behind him and looked around. Finally he found her-with a Russian on top of her, forcing a dagger down towards her. Her face was red and sweating as she struggled to keep the blade away from her.

A furious cry split from his lips and he sprinted towards the Russian, tackling him. He took the knife from his hands and shoved it in his neck, killing him. Without a second of hesitation, he ran back to Claire-he didn't even bother with the Sanchez shit anymore. She lied on the ground, gasping. He got on his knees and knelt over her.

"Claire, are you alright?" He asked worriedly. Her eyes flicked to his face and then back down. He looked down and saw that her uniform was dark and damp on her stomach. He quickly tore off her vest and slid her shirt up, exposing her stomach. Blood flowed from a savage wound that sank through it. She continued to gasp in pain, her breath became labored, and her skin felt hot in his hands.

"Is…is it-bad?" Claire struggled.

"No," he lied. "No, it-it's perfectly fine. We're going to get you patched up and you'll be back on your feet in a few minutes, alright?"

"Stop…with the…bull…shit," she breathed. "I can…see in your…your eyes…that you're…lying. Don't you…dare…lie…to…me. How…bad…is it?"

"It-it's bad," Ramirez choked. Ever since August, they'd been on several insertions across the country. Not as an official full squadron, but together nevertheless. He couldn't bear to see her die. He put his right arm around her waist and his left around her shoulders, her head resting on his elbow. "Just stay with me, alright? Dunn's a medic; he'll know what to do."

She nodded feebly and began to shake uncontrollably. He put his right hand over her head and felt it burning in his palm. He wiped sweat from her forehead and put his hand back to hold her more steadily. He felt his hand touch something wet around her waist. He lifted his hand from her and found his hand covered in warm, sticky, crimson blood. He blinked tears from his eyes and held her tighter.

Her eyes began to fall heavily and he shook her, whispering into her ear to stay awake. She mumbled under her breath but did as he said. Several times she began to drift off and several times he shook her awake. He laid her against a tree and began to tear his uniform into strips. He tied them together and then tightly wrapped them around her wound.

Her shivering hadn't ceased; in fact, it seemed to have gotten worse. He instinctively took off his vest and wrapped it around her. Once that was finished, he realized he had nothing left that he could do to help her. He simply sat there, holding Claire in his arms as he awaited Dunn and Foley's arrival. Moments turned to seconds, seconds turned to minutes, and sure enough, minutes turned into an hour of waiting.

"I'll be back," he said, lying her against the tree.

"No, please don't leave me," she moaned.

"I promise," he reassured her. "I'll be back. I have to find Dunn and get you help. I just need you to stay awake for me, okay?" She nodded feebly. He hesitated before he left, staring at her limp form. Then he sprinted from the woods and back into the neighborhood.

"DUNN!" Ramirez called. "Dunn, where are you?" He received no response. "Foley! Foley, are you there? Guys, where are you? I need help! Claire's wounded over here!"

He tried his radio but found it full of static. "FUCK!" He swore, and then raced back to the woods. Claire was slumped on the ground, her eyes closed and her body still. His heart racing, Ramirez ran up to her and took her by the shoulders, shaking her violently. "Claire, wake up! Come on, Claire, you have to get up!" She moaned and opened her eyes. They used to be such bright, vibrant, and-Ramirez admitted-beautiful jade green eyes. Now, they were dim and near-lifeless.

He picked her up and raced into the closest house he could find. He kicked in the door and found himself in a neat, well-kept home. He didn't regret that the owners would come back to see it bloodstained. He set her on a couch and ran into the kitchen, tearing the cupboards and drawers apart trying to find medical supplies.

Finally, he found a First Aid kit. He tore it open and found medical gauze, various medicines, and tools. He silently thanked the owners of the house and raced back to Claire. He quickly unwrapped the makeshift bandage to be met with dried blood. He cursed himself for knowing what kind of pain he was about to cause her. He apologized to her and then took his knife and began to cut the dried blood off.

She writhed in pain and screamed. Ramirez found it truly bloodcurdling. He secured her, then took a pair of pliers from the First Aid kit and once again apologized before digging into her flesh. Tears began to stream down her face and she screamed louder and louder as he dug for the bullet lodged in her stomach. Finally, he found a hard point. He grabbed it with the pliers and quickly tore it out as to not prolong her pain. She screamed again, crying and choking on her own sobs.

It tore at Ramirez's heart to hear her in such agony, but continued to work. He applied the medicine where he could and wrapped her bloody wound in the medical gauze. Then Ramirez went back into the kitchen to bag up ice packs for her. He came back to see her face red and cheeks shining from tears flowing from her eyes.

She was still silently crying, her body convulsing as it did so from the pain she felt by doing so. He wrapped her in sheets he found in bedrooms and applied the ice packs to her stomach wound and her forehead, trying to ease the pain and reduce her fever. He sighed, wiping sweat from his forehead. He realized that he'd been working on her wound for several hours already and that he was truly exhausted by the effort. He took his helmet off and ran his fingers through his black hair. He made a mental note to cut it; it was longer than the standard military regulations allowed.

"James," Claire murmured. He quickly shot over to her and knelt beside her.

"Yeah, Claire?" He said. "What is it?"

"I guess you're returning the favor, huh?" She said. "I saved you and you saved me." Ramirez chuckled.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I guess I am. How are you feeling?"

"Better," she said. "But not because of the meds or anything." Ramirez furrowed his brow, confused. He gave her a questioning stare.

"What do you mean?"

"James," she said. "I love you. I think I have since we met back in D.C." Ramirez's heart lurched, warming and fluttering with absolute joy for he'd felt the same way for her despite his protests against the idle taunts from Dunn and Foley. "I know that you don't feel the same, but if I die, I want you to know that."

"Claire," he said firmly. "You will not die, got it? I'm not going to let you die no matter what."

"I didn't think you would," she said. "But even you can't stop death if it calls."

"We'll see about that," he said with a wry smile. "Oh, and you were wrong about one thing, Claire."

"What's that?"

"I love you, too." Just by saying that, she smiled at him. Her eyes were glassy but she blinked them away. Ramirez leaned towards her and kissed her long and passionately. She-even in her pain-leaned in to return the kiss. It lasted only a few seconds yet in their minds, it lasted an eternity. Ramirez stroked her night-black hair lightly and the two stared into each other's eyes for a long while. Ramirez looked around and picked up his M4A1.

"I'll be back," he said. "I'm going to check the area and make sure those bastards aren't still around."

"Please be careful," she pleaded. He grinned and nodded, then walked around the house. He set up claymores from his utility pack around the entrances of the house, but put them far enough away so that they could go outside when they could. Ramirez didn't see any Russians, but he didn't see Dunn or Foley, either. Once again, he tried the long range radio channels but found nothing. He sighed and went back inside the house.

He found Claire sleeping on the bloodstained couch. He picked her up and took her to one of the bedrooms. He lied her on the bed and wrapped her in the sheets and blankets before climbing in with her and wrapping his arms around her protectively. He had placed his M4A1 and her M16A4 on the floor with the magazines ejected. He did, however, keep his M9 holstered at his hip and a clip on the table next to the bed. Just in case.

**So what do you guys think of that chapter? Better yet, what do you guys think of the story so far and the fact that I've updated three times in four days? Expect me to keep writing more often and PLEASE, PLEASE REVIEW THIS CHAPTER! It means a lot to me when you guys review my stories and tell me how I'm doing. Thanks for your patience when I was out for weeks or months at a time and know that I'm back to writing as much as possible now. Hope you enjoyed and I also hope to see some reviews from you guys!**

**-WOLF**


	17. Goalpost

***Just to warn you, this chapter will portray why this can never be a T rated story. Also, I have a message at the end for all of the people following my stories***

"Goalpost"

October 6th - 13:01:41, 2016

SGT Derek 'Frost' Westbrook

Delta Force

Hamburg, Germany

"_The chemical attacks have been triggered across all of Europe from as far north as England to as far south as France," the newscaster reported. "What we don't know is who initiated these attacks or who the attackers are, but this is being called the worst terrorist incident in history."_

_ More and more of the news footage reached the War Room of the aircraft carrier. Videos of gas attacks and images of the death toll plagued the screen, filling the soldiers in not only that carrier, but others as well, including the battleships and destroyers in the entire fleet getting the report on the terrorist attacks on Europe. There were rumors coming in that Russia was to blame, but that was still largely unconfirmed._

_ There were even darker, more forbidding rumors; rumors that the Ultranationalists had returned and were taking their revenge on the world, starting with Europe. People were thinking that if the Ultranationalists had indeed returned, then the war with Russian would be the least of their problems. After all, they nearly nuked the east coast of the United States, and they would have succeeded had a team of Marines and SAS troops not stopped them just in time._

_ There were video feeds from soldiers of the various militaries in the European countries, all of them calling for help. They were beginning to panic, hazmat suits being donned but not all of them successful. One of the news feeds from France showed a man in a gas mask screaming frantically about the gas attack. He coughed heavily in his mask and eventually-and to everyone's utter dismay-he tore off his mask, coughing up blood and gasping for air._

_ "I've been exposed!" He choked before he collapsed, the video feed ending. The Americans sat there shocked beyond belief-they had believed that the worst terrorist attack had happened in September 11__th__, 2001. Now, all of Europe was exposed to a deadly gas attack. They were now being sent in as decontamination units to help survivors evacuate and get out to sea where the gas attacks had not occurred._

_ "Over two hundred seventy million civilians have been killed in the gas attacks," Overlord told them. "We have to help whoever is out there that survived the attacks. Once that's done, we'll find out who-"_

_ A marine ran up to Overlord and whispered something in his ear. Overlord furrowed his brow and made a quiet response. The marine shrugged and Overlord turned back to the tech at the terminal. He muttered something to him and a view screen lit up of Germany, a frantic call emitted from the screen._

_ "This is Ramstein, we're under attack!" The man yelled._

_ "Roger, that," Overlord replied calmly. "We have been notified of the gas attacks and are sending Decon units your way."_

_ "No, you don't understand," he protested. "It's not the gas, it's the Russians!"_

_ "Repeat again, Ramstein," Overlord said, just as confused as everyone else in the War Room. "What Russian forces?"_

_ "It's the whole damn Russian army!" A live video feed of Germany appeared, Russian T55s driving down the street._

_ "Then this was no act of terrorism," Overlord growled. "Those attacks were intended to cripple our defenses and pave way for an invasion, which means that we need to hit them now with everything we've got. If the intel coming in is correct, then it's even more imperative that we get to Hamburg."_

_ "Why's that sir?" Sandman asked._

_ "We've got a principal level hostage issue," Overlord replied._

_ "Who?"_

_ "It's the goddamn Vice President," He said._

"Lookout!" the pilot screamed. RPGs, Stinger Missiles, and Javelin fire flew around the Air Force. Black Hawks, V-22 Ospreys, Little Birds, and other various aircraft took evasive maneuvers to evade the incoming projectiles, some doing so in vain, others to succeed and only be met with anti-air flak from the ground forces below.

Frost slung his M4A1 on his back and held on tightly to the Black Hawk-he'd still not fully recovered from his newfound phobia of helicopters from his near-death experience in Manhattan. Sandman and Grinch, however, were calm and paid little heed to their own Black Hawk. Truck was behind him, so Frost had no idea what was going on for him. Frost regrettably assumed it was the same as Sandman and Grinch.

An RPJ flew into the tail rudder of a Black Hawk nearby, sending it flying out of control to the ocean below. A V-22 began to take heavy fire from anti-air flak and Javelins, which eventually led to an anti-air flak burst penetrating the cockpit and a Javelin smashing into the left wing, sending it into the ocean as well. The two sudden tragedies unfolding in front to Frost's eyes didn't bode well for his self-esteem in what he was beginning to believe was simply a giant flying target for the Russians.

In a few minutes that to Frost felt like a few hours, the Black Hawk hovered over the new beachhead. The water from the ocean seemed to have receded further back, leaving boats lying on solid ground. It was both an awe-inducing and horrible view. More soldiers rushed up the beach, using anchors, boats, and rocks for cover as the tanks rumbled upward, firing their cannons and machine guns. Unfortunately, the entire beach was practically a second D-Day. Machinegun emplacements and Sentry Turrets unleashed a hail of bullets down on the soldiers. The tangy smell of ozone poisoned the air and gunfire (as well as cannon fire) rang deafeningly in Frost's ears. He felt as though his sense of sight and taste had been suddenly siphoned from him to the point of blindness and tastelessness compared to his sense of touch, hearing, and smell which seemed to be amplified to the maximum capacity of a human.

Frost sprinted around a group of rusted, coral-encrusted anchors and dove behind a group of rocks. Seaweed and moss clung defiantly to them, only to be torn away as the high velocity bullets from the sentry turrets and machineguns ripped through their sinewy material with ease as though tearing wet paper. The rocks and boulders, however, stood ever presently still, taking the bullets and suffering only small punctures and chips off of their sides. Unfortunately, combined fire did nothing to keep that rate, ensuring that the rocks were blasted into oblivion to the point where the soldiers would have to dive for cover somewhere else.

The tanks began to lie down suppressing fire on the Russians to allow the soldiers to move up, but even they were taking too much damage. Some of the anti-air guns began to lower and target the tanks instead. One of the guns sent a tank flying high into the air and into a V-22 Osprey, sending them both to the ground in a glorious display of flame and shrapnel. The intense heat emitted from within the explosion was enough to singe Frost's hair and skin. He could feel the flame licking at the ground nearby like burning tendrils to ensnare him.

Sandman crouched in front of him, leaning over the side of the boulders to see the path ahead. Gunfire streaked past him, each bullet smashing into the earth and mud, spraying them with droplets of the thick, dark substances. The suppressing fire from the tanks was keeping the Russians at bay, allowing them a perfect opening. Sandman called to the troops and they rushed up the beachhead towards the foxholes and bunkers set up on the ridge.

The tanks ceased fire to allow them access. The soldiers fired through the window openings at the Russians, throwing and launching grenades into the foxholes. Frost took to the right, firing at Russians that were using a cargo plane wreckage as cover. Gunfire etched the across the wreck. Each time a bullet flew from Frost's M4A1, he could hear the deafening shot, smell the thick ozone emitted from its auxiliary exhaust couplings on the side, and he could see each individual shell fly out of the barrel.

He had no idea why this battle was so different compared to all others where his senses were more in tune with his surroundings than ever before, but he paid it no mind. They began to push down the street, the tanks rumbling behind them. One of the tanks erupted into a massive, cataclysmic ball of flame as one of the Russian's T90s annihilated it.

Frost dove behind the cover of a bus, slinging his M4A1 over his shoulder and taking out his SMAW Missile. He crept underneath the bus and looked down the street, watching as the tank refocused its cannon to fire upon more of the American troops. Frost adjusted his grip on the missile crept forward inches more, aimed, and fired. The rocket flew into the tank, obliterating it and sending burning, charred shrapnel in all directions.

The soldiers cheered and Frost grinned. He slid the empty SMAW under the bus and crawled out from underneath it, taking out his M4A1 and aiming it down the streets. His ACOG's optical enhanced allowed him greater accuracy in both close quarters and long ranges. He took cover behind an ammunition crate and shot back out, aiming down the destroyed street. He fired several rounds into the Russians, the recoil of the gun vibrating against his shoulder and sending miniature shockwaves through his body, like the aftershock of an earthquake.

They continued for hours down the street, buildings and houses crumbling around them as cannon, RPG, and missile fire screamed around them. Destroyed vehicles littered the streets, blood staining the gravel roads and paved driveways and sidewalks. The entire city was a deathly ghost town, probably uninhabitable for who knows how long. It would cost billions to repair the city because of the acts of Russia, and Frost didn't want to think what it would be like now. With Russia invading all of Europe and some parts of Asia, it had finally ignited a third World War. Luckily, no one had been dumb enough to use nuclear weapons yet. Yes, the nuclear missile launched over the US creating an electromagnetic shockwave did count technically as a nuclear attack, but it didn't cause the amount of mass destruction and death as the EMP did.

So the world knew how to use its brains for once. Yet only America was really catching on to a man named Vladimir Makarov.

They came across a large barricade across the street from a large apartment complex. The tanks halted in front of the barricade, the rear ones firing periodically at some of the surrounding buildings as Russians fired at them. However, the barricade was easily accessible; all the tanks had to do was roll over the pathetic excuse for a stop.

"Hey, what's the hold up?" Sandman demanded. The gunner on top of the tank turned to Sandman, taking off his headgear and asking him to repeat what he'd said. Sandman complied and repeated.

"The only way through is to that parking garage to the other side!" He replied. "We'll have to take it slow because I'm not sure if the support beams inside can handle the wei-"

"SNIPER!" Grinch cried. The gunner turned around, only for a bullet to smash through his skull, blood flying out of his head and coating the armor of the tank in crimson.

"Carter's hit!" The driver cried. "Where was it?"

"The top floor of the building ahead, at your nine o'clock!" Grinch replied. The canon turned to Grinch's coordinates, raised, and fired. The canon shot obliterated the entire section of the building, half of the roof coming down on top of it. Without hesitation, Frost turned to Sandman.

"Permission to replace that gunner, sir!" Frost said.

"Permission granted!" Sandman replied.

Frost clambered on top of the tank and slid into the gunner's position. He was thankful that he was wearing gloves, not wanting to touch Carter's blood-coated gun with his bare skin. He pulled back the pin on the minigun and told the driver that he was ready. The tank began to rumble forward and Russians began to run to and fro in front of the building, Frost easily cutting them down.

Then, a Russian Hind flew over the complex and the tank began to back up as the Hind's guns bore down on them. Frost adjusted his minigun and began to return fire on the Hind, sending the massive helicopter crashing down, the wreckage flipping on the streets and lightly hitting their gun. The tank began to rumble down the street again, Frost lighting up the Russians with the minigun while the canon began to tear into vehicles.

As they entered the darkened garage of the apartment complex, Russians began falling back through a security checkpoint. The only entrances through that checkpoint, however, were too small to allow a full tank through it. The driver, however, didn't care. He sent the tank into full throttle and smashed through the checkpoint, crushing Russians underneath its massive treads. Frost adjusted the minigun to fire upon the Russians on the other side, the high velocity bullets tearing through them as though they were made of wet paper.

The tank continued down to the ramp where they met up with its counterpart unit. In a politely, joking manner, the driver of Frost's tank offered the other to go first, an offer he accepted. Within the massive garage, more Russians began to pour in, firing machine guns and assault rifles at them. The tanks easily took care of them, but then came the tricky part.

The only possible way to the other end of the building was up the ramp or go down the long way three levels down. The drivers chose the short direction and slowly began to ascend the ramp and into the upper section of the garage. The first tank made it to the top flawlessly, and the second was just about there when suddenly, an RPG flew from one of the upper floors and smashed into the support struts below them.

Frost braced himself in the tank as the ramp crumbled from underneath them, the tank falling down to each and every lower level, each time it hit causing a bone jarring, teeth shattering shockwave to travel up and through Frost's body. Finally, the tank fell down to the last level. Frost breathed a sigh of relief until he heard a creaking sound from above him.

He looked up to see a car tilting precariously over the edge of the level above them. It fell down, Frost just barely ducking into the tank in time before the car smashed into it. The destroyed turret crumbled into the tank, blocking the only way out. The driver was checking the body of the canon gunner. He was bleeding heavily, and in the dim red emergency lights, Frost could see the glistening shape of organs. The man was screaming in pain.

"FROST!" A muffled voice cried from outside of the tank. Sandman banged on the side. "Frost, can you hear me?"

"Yeah, I'm alright!" Frost called back.

"The turret's lodged in there, is there any other hatch?" Sandman asked.

"Yeah, I got it!" Frost replied, kicking open the door in the back. He and the driver carried out the gunner, laying him on the ground.

"What the fuck happened?" Sandman exclaimed upon the sight of the man.

"When we crashed that turret tore him up," the driver replied. "He's bleeding to death, sir."

"Grinch, where are you?"

"Pinned down with the tank three levels up!" Grinch replied in the radio.

"Dammit," Sandman growled. "Grinch we got a heavily wounded man down here. Any ideas?"

"Hold up," he said. They could hear gunfire from his radio link. Once it ceased, Grinch told them to look out. Frost looked up through the various holes in the ceiling to see Grinch's medical pack fall down through the ramps. Frost caught it and hurried over to the wounded soldier. He tore open the pack and emptied its contents. Medicine, shots, gauze bandages, medical tape, and several other objects that Frost couldn't decipher lied out on the stone floor before him.

"Alright," Frost said. "First let's see the wound. We'll have to stop the bleeding."

The driver nodded and began to take off the man's uniform jacket and undershirt, carefully unstrapping the bullet proof vest he was wearing. Even that had been torn to shreds as though mauled by a vicious animal. Frost nearly gagged when he saw the extent of the wound. His entire stomach area was torn to shreds, blood pouring out in a thick, warm pool around him. Frost could see his organs, his torn muscle tissue just barely kept together by threads on top of it.

The light from the garage glistened on his organs, some of which were moving still, pumping more blood that leaked from his body. The driver couldn't contain himself and stumbled behind the tank to throw up. Frost and Sandman kept their posture and began to work on him. Frost handed Sandman the gauze and he took off his gloves. He was sickened to the core for what he would have to do, but if the gloves touched his exposed organs or bloodstream, then any infections from blood to dust or mud that he'd picked up on his gloves would go right into him, whereas his bare hands were-for once-cleaner than his gloves.

Frost stole himself for a moment before pressing his hands down on his stomach. The man screamed in pain, his cries echoing throughout the garage. Frost continued to keep pressure on the wound while Sandman frantically unraveled the gauze. Once he was done, Sandman wrapped the large wound in it, the gauze quickly turning a deep crimson hue as the blood stained it. Frost looked around in Grinch's bag, finding disinfectant wipes. First, he cleaned off his own blood coated hands, then took the rest and cleaned the blood off of the man.

A rappel line fell down from above, Grinch and Truck falling down from above. Grinch's eyes widened and he immediately rushed over to the man. Truck, on the other hand, joined the driver behind the tank. The man was still screaming, and blood was still leaking out of him, but the gauze was blocking it. Well, it was just barely blocking it.

Grinch took one of the shots out of his pack, filled it with liquid, and then shoved the needle into his shoulder. He inserted the liquid into his bloodstream, but the man still screamed horribly. Grinch looked down at the man in frustration, continuing to try everything he could until his attempts were spent. Finally, he took a bottle from his pack, his hand shaking slightly.

"What is that?" Frost asked.

"Iodine," Grinch replied. "It's a last resort. We've hardly used since the second World War."

"What does it do?" Sandman asked.

"It lessens the pain." Grinch replied flatly, his voice cracking.

"So what, we just give up?" Frost demanded. "We let him die?"

"Frost," Grinch said, his dark eyes staring into Frost's. "I've tried everything. This man needs to be in a hospital right now if he has the barest chance of survival. There aren't any hospitals around here."

Frost looked down at the man in shock and horror as Grinch undid the gauze, tipping the iodine bottle over his wound, the liquid washing over him. The man arched his back and screamed in pain, blood spurting from his wound. Frost shot Grinch a cold glare, Grinch simply holding up his hand. The man's screams began to subside and he lied on the ground, breathing heavily.

He began muttering, asking feebly for his mother. That was when Frost couldn't take it any longer. Tears began to leak from his eyes and he turned around, slamming his fist into one of the support pillars, yelling obscenities into the garage. Frost turned back and looked at the man. A peaceful look-well, more peaceful than his pained expression-washed over his face. Grinch held his hand, whispering into his ear. Frost couldn't hear everything said, but he was able to hear "you're not alone, brother."

Frost collapsed on the ground, his back leaning on the pillar. He took his helmet off and let his head rest on his folded legs. Finally, the man breathed his last and he died. Grinch laid the man's hands on his chest and Grinch made the hand motions of the cross. He placed his hands on the man's.

"We'll see you in hell, brother." He whispered. Frost stood up and angrily threw his helmet into the side of the tank. He went over to the tank and grabbed his M4A1 out, checking the ammo inside. What he saw chilled him to the core. One of the bullets had discharged. He turned back to the man and looked carefully. A single hole penetrated his exposed kidney.

Frost collapsed, knowing full well that he was a cause of the man's death. Sandman looked at him and he picked up his own M4A1.

"Alright, boys," he said. "We've lost a lot of people today, but we've still got a mission. We can save a hell of a lot more lives right now if we get moving. Now grab your guns and someone grab this guy's tags. We're Oscar Mike people, let's get moving."

Frost's mind went blank as they fought through the garages. Russians used cars for cover, but Frost hardly recalled the fighting. He hardly recalled breaking out of the garage and roaming down the streets. He paid little mind to inspecting the crashed and destroyed cars, searching for the Vice President. When they breached the final room in that office to find the bagged, strained, captive Vice President, Frost didn't even look at the man. He didn't feel he was worthy of getting on the V-22 with the Vice President back to that aircraft carrier. For the first time in his life, Frost wanted to die.

**I'm truly sorry for not updating guys. Now that it's Summer, I can hopefully get a lot more done and possibly finish this story by the end of vacation. First of all, though, I'd like to tell you guys the reason I didn't update a week ago: I was at E3 the entire time, trying out new games, simply watching the show, and having a ton of fun. I was able to try out Halo 4, Black Ops 2, Medal of Honor: Warfighter, and Aliens: Colonial Marines. If you have any doubts on the playability of the games, then take my word for it when I say that these are the four best games I've played in a while. Medal of Honor: Warfighter has far better multiplayer than the first game, but if you didn't enjoy Battlefield 3, you might not like how Medal of Honor: Warfighter plays. For Aliens: Colonial Marines, I have to say the game feels amazing. It's fun, action-packed, and looks and sounds exactly like the movies. Halo 4's multiplayer is up to match with Halo 2, which-as all Halo gamers know-is the best of the series. Black Ops 2, however, is a bit more controversial. The multiplayer doesn't feel like any other CoD before it. It's a bit of a fast paced tactical game with new weapons and killstreaks, but it's just kind of hard to explain. **

**Anyhow, I'd also like to know what you all think of the story so far. How did you like this chapter? Reviews are always welcome and I like to see what your opinions are on how I write. Also, I'd like to have your opinions on what my next story should be. Should I write a Black Ops, Aliens VS Predator, Halo, or a random fanfic? I hope you guys liked this chapter and if you're enjoying the Hunter 2-1 "WOLF SQUADRON" storyline, then you're going to really love the next chapter! As a last note, if you're an Xbox 360 gamer, just send me a friend request and message if you want to ask any questions about my stories, what I'm doing, or just to go play a good old Team Deathmatch game. Until next time.**

**-WOLFxVSlayer667**


	18. Return to Sender

"Return to Sender"

October 6th - 13:01:41, 2016

Yuri

Task Force 141 - DISAVOWED

Hamburg, Germany

"_O.C, I've got someone on the line who says he's got a lead on the chemical attacks," the operator said. The Scottish man blew a puff of smoke from his lips, drawing the smoldering cigar from his mouth. He looked back at the man with a questioning look._

_ "Who is it?" He asked._

_ "He won't tell me, sir," he replied. "He's a stubborn bastard. He says that he'll only talk to you." He walked up to the man and took the transceiver from him. Then, he ordered everyone inside the room to leave. They left hesitantly, confused as to why he wanted them to leave. Finally, the room was cleared and he walked into his office, resting shakily in the chair at his desk, listening to his old bones creak. _I'm getting too old for this, _he thought. _

_ "Alright," he said. "Who is this? Identify yourself."_

_ "Mac," the man on the line said. His voice was familiar, yet he couldn't understand how he knew his name. "It's John." _Well,_ he thought._ I guess that answers that question._ He released a heavy sigh._

_ "We've put a lot of names on the clock tower this week, lad," he replied, running his fingers through his hair. "I've lost a lot of people on my team. I think that it is your right to know that Griffin has been killed in action."_

_ "That's unfortunate," Price replied. "If I live through this war, I'll go to Hereford to give my regards. It's all due to that bastard Makarov. He slipped through my fingers in Sierra Leone. What does MI6 know?"_

_ "Oh, come on, John," MacMillan replied. "You're on everyone's shit-list. There's no possible way that I can give you that kind of clearance."_

_ "Don't give me that shit, Mac!" Price roared. "We've known each other for decades, been friends for just as long, and you _still_ owe me for what happened in Pripyat! I'm calling this one in!"_

_ "Alright, just take it easy son!" MacMillan cried. He hadn't recalled Price being like this. Whatever happened in that Gulag must have taken a toll on him. "Alright, now what I'm about to tell you can't be heard by anyone or I'm in the same hell hole you're in. We've traced the gas shipments in the truck we captured to a delivery freighter. We traced that freighter to a post in Bosaso, Somalia._

_ "The place is run by a nasty piece of work named Waraabe. He's a diehard terror enthusiast like Makarov. He helped Alejandro Rojas with the supplies he needed to give Makarov for that attack. He even gave Rojas' militia weapons. He specializes in the slave trade and illegal militant enforcement in several regions in Africa. Look, I'd love to send some men down to help you, even come myself, but I'm too old to do all this fighting now and my hands are all tied with getting my men to help with the evacuation process up here and finding any survivors from the gas attacks. You're on your own, old friend. Good hunting."_

_ "Alright," Price replied. "And I'm sending a man to your squad, if you're willing."_

_ "Who?" MacMillan asked skeptically._

_ "He's an ex-One Four One operative. He's already defied death on one occasion when Shepherd betrayed us, and he's willing to get payback. He's a strong fighter and loyal enough."_

_ "Send him up," MacMillan said. "I could always use some help. We lost a big part of your old team, and I could use some help."_

_ "Alright, Price out," he said. "Stay out of trouble, will you?" MacMillan chuckled._

_ "Trouble always seems to find you, and in turn, anyone else associated with you," MacMillan replied. "I'll make the attempt. MacMillan out."_

_ "So," Soap said as Price ended the link. "What does the security at this place look like?" Yuri typed madly at the computer, finding the location of Waraabe's compound. Finally, the search popped up._

_ "It appears that it is strictly second division," Yuri replied. "I'm going to assume that he simply hires local gunmen. Unfortunately, there are a lot of local African militants that he can hire and we'll obviously stick out like a sore thumb there."_

_ "Then we'll just have to kick in the front door," Price said, lighting a cigar and loading his Colt M1911. "Tell Nikolai to ready his men. We're moving out."_

Yuri looked out over the side of the truck. Dust and sand kicked up from the wheels as they sped across the desert. Every time they encountered a rock or bump in the road, it would send jarring shudders throughout the truck. After several hours, Yuri determined that he would never get used to it. They could drive on that road forever and he wouldn't have a change of heart in the matter. It just wasn't something that he wanted to do ever again.

Price and Soap didn't seem to like it any more than he did. Soap had tied a bandana around his mouth and nose, donning sunglasses, all to cover his face from the harmful effects of the sand. Yuri looked at him in amusement, thinking that he looked a lot like the local militants. Price was the most aggravated of the trio. The sand blew in his eyes and stuck to his beard, and several times his hat nearly flew off, forcing him to hold it down on his head as he drove forward with Nikolai's convoy.

Yuri had no idea that it even existed. Nikolai always insisted that he was like a hired mercenary, yet he had his own private army to help him. Yuri didn't even know any of his men. Not one of them looked familiar.

As they continued on, the desert turned to cliffs and the dust started to cease blowing in their eyes. Unfortunately, a massive, dark cloud of sand hovered ominously in the far distance, swirling and blowing around into a massive sandstorm. Yuri looked over the side of the truck and down over the cliffs. The sandstorm's reflection was even visible from the ocean. It sent chills down Yuri's spine just thinking of it.

"If we move quickly," Price called over the howling wind as they sped past. "We can snag Waraabe before the bastard has the chance to bug off!"

"That sandstorm is moving in damn fast!" Soap called, taking off the glasses and bandanna. "We only have one shot at this, so we can't bloody screw this up!"

The other trucks carrying Nikolai's men drove up to join them on the main road, all of them wielding assault rifles and Light Machineguns.

"Bravo Team!" Price yelled. "Take point! Smash through that gate and hit the bastards fast!"

"Nikolai!" Soap called. As if on cue, Nikolai's massive Russian Hind flew overhead. Yuri had no idea how his comrade managed to acquire the vehicles he had. First it was a Pave Low, then a plane, a stolen Little Bird, and now a Hind. At one point, Nikolai had even managed to take a V22 Osprey Prototype model. Yuri sometimes wondered as to what Nikolai did in his free time, and then he decided it was probably best if that question was left unanswered. "Soften them up for us!"

"Roger that," Nikolai replied. "Missiles away!" The side hatches of the Hind ejected, boasting four individual arrays of missiles, eight of the deadly weapons assigned to each holding rack. Yuri could have sworn that Hinds couldn't hold sixty four missiles, but once again, he didn't want to know how he managed to do that.

The missiles flew forward and smashed into the city gate, the stone and metal crumbling on top of itself. Yuri grabbed his M4A1 and slid the ACOG sight into place. He stood up, placing a restraining hand on the open roof of truck and fired at the militants behind the gate. Price slammed his foot on the pedal and Yuri ducked inside the truck as it smashed through the gate. Yuri heard the thumps on the truck and the screams of pain that followed, knowing that Price decided to make deliberate road kill of the militants.

They leaped out of the truck and opened fire on the militants. The militants looked shocked, looking at Price, Soap, Yuri, and Nikolai's men as the militants were loading crates onto three massive ships with the name 'Fregata' painted on its matte black hull.

Whatever was in the crates must have been dangerous, for the militants didn't just drop them, they carefully set them down. That is, unless they didn't cut the militants down first. Considering the fact that they were so careful to not drop the boxes, Yuri was worried as to what would happen if the contents escaped. It could be the same deadly gas that was currently all over Europe, or I might be something even worse. Either way, they had to be cautious.

Nikolai lowered the Hind down the courtyard and began firing his twin machine guns at the militants, narrowly dodging missiles and bullets. Nikolai flew away as they traveled through the docking structures and what Yuri was beginning to refer to as a ship graveyard. The skeletal remains of destroyed ships littered the docking area.

Yuri kicked in the emergency escape hatch of one of the ships and ran inside, witnessing as a militant opened a case and tossed an AK47 to another militant. Before they could put the weapons to use, Yuri raised his gun and cut them down.

"Captain Price!" Yuri called into the radio.

"What is it, Yuri?" Price responded, the sound of gunfire ringing in the background.

"The militants are using the ships as barracks and armories!" He reported. "Stay sharp!"

"Roger that!" He said. "We're moving up on Waraabe's mansion now!"

Yuri ended the link and ran up the metal grated stairs, loading a new magazine into his M4A1. More militants were firing from the makeshift balconies on the sides of the destroyed bridge. Before Yuri could fire any shots at them, Nikolai's Hind lowered in front of them, the twin machine guns tearing through them, blood and torn limbs splattering across the windows until the bullets tore the side of the bridge apart as well.

Nikolai turned the Hind slightly and looked directly at Yuri, a hysterical smile plastered on his face. He saluted to Yuri before taking off to engage the militants at the buildings closer to Waraabe's palace. Yuri smiled and shook his head before moving forward. It was a brief fight before the militants were either dead or had fallen back into the palace.

Yuri leaped down from the ship and rejoined Price, Soap, and Nikolai's forces, Nikolai hovering about twenty meters above them. Price ordered Nikolai's men to follow his Hind to the landing zone on the other side of the shipyard to the marketplace. Yuri, Price, and Soap were to breach the palace and find Waraabe.

Nikolai flew off, his men following behind him. Price led the way into the gardens of the palace and up the old, sandstone stairs. The few militants remaining in the palace were easily cut down before them. One of the militants ran out of ammunition and frantically tried to reload, but Price ran into him, shoving him off the edge of floor and down three more levels into the gardens far below. The fall would break his bones and his ribs would puncture his vital organs. Internal bleeding would finish him off.

They approached a large, intricately designed door barred by a light chain. Soap gave an amused smile and simply shot the lock, the chain falling off to the floor below. Price and Soap took positions on either side of the door while Yuri readied a frame charge. He slammed it onto the door, twisted the activation key, and they waited until the charge blew. As the door flew inward, they whipped inside, firing at Waraabe's guards. They dropped down easily. Waraabe looked at them, his face contorted in a look of shock. He tried to run away, but Price grabbed him by the shoulder, twisted him around, and punched him upside the jaw. He kicked Waraabe in the chest, causing him to fall down on crates behind him.

"Gas masks on," Price growled. Soap and Yuri nodded, pulling masks out of the pack Yuri wore. Price had his strapped to his waist. Once they were donned, Price planted a foot on Waraabe's chest, taking out a can. The toxic materials insignia was posted clearly on the front. He shoved it in Waraabe's face, Waraabe trying to back away in horror. "Look familiar?"

"W-where did you get that?" Waraabe sputtered.

"I know people," Price responded. He grabbed the pin on the top.

"No! No, please!" Waraabe screamed. Price unclipped it and threw it in the far corner of the room, the sickly green gas billowing at a shockingly rapid pace.

"Tell me where Makarov is," Price said, holding out a spare gas mask. Waraabe grabbed for it but Price gave him a swift kick to the face, ending his fantasies of survival. Waraabe whimpered and slumped back down, his eyes nervously darting from Price to the gas to Price again. "And this is all yours."

"Our contact was a man named Volk!" Waraabe yelled. Yuri was surprised that he gave in so easily. Then again, Price's way of persuasion was very good. "He's a man in Paris! We never met Makarov, I swear! Volk said that Makarov needed the gas and he never told us what for, so we sent it to Volk and he gave it to Makarov personally! I swear that we never met him!"

"Good," Price said. He held out the gas mask, but before Waraabe could grab it, he tossed it into the gas. Waraabe screamed in horror, and then looked back up as Price drew his M1911. "This is for the men at Hereford."

"No! NO!" Price fired, the bullet flying through Waraabe's head, blood and brain matter staining the grates behind him. Price motioned for them to leave, Soap knocking down the door and allowing them to escape the palace and get to the back road.

"Nikolai, we've got Waraabe's information," Price reported. "Get to the primary LZ for immediate pick up!"

"Copy," Nikolai replied. "You must hurry, that sandstorm is moving in fast!" As if on cue, a large crack like an AK47 gunshot sounded in the distance, drawing the attention of Soap, Price, and Yuri. The colossal dust cloud and grown closer and loomed ominously above them, the darkness of its shadow hanging over the village.

"That storm is massive," Soap breathed.

"The last thing we need is to get stuck in that," Price said. "Let's move!"

"Do you think that Waraabe was telling the truth?" Yuri questioned.

"I'd bet Makarov's life on it," Price replied.

They made it to the marketplace with the rest of Nikolai's troop, the massive Hind lowering into the courtyard. Suddenly, an RPG flew underneath Nikolai's Hind, missing it my centimeters. It smashed into a stone column, rubble and dust raining around them. Nikolai flew up and over the buildings and out of sight, probably heading towards the secondary landing zone. Having no more weapons or ammunition to accompany them, he was effectively target practice for the militants.

Price was yelling at Nikolai in the radio as more RPG and gunfire rang throughout the marketplace. Yuri cocked his M4A1 and fired at the militants on the rooftops. One of them fell down while firing, his finger sliding back on the trigger, sending the rocket into the wall of a neighboring building, sending it crumbling to the ground and killing the militants on top. The aftershock of the rocket sent shuddering waves throughout the building of which it was fired, sending it to the ground as well.

Price, Soap, Yuri, and the survivors of Nikolai's men kept pushing down the street towards the second landing zone. It was placed at the top of a large construction complex in the center of the city. Pushing forward at top speed, the militants firing at them every step of the way, bullets flying around Nikolai's men, Soap, Yuri, and Price, they barely made it to the complex.

The sandstorm was now nearly directly on top of them, Yuri estimating around five minutes out. The militants had lost their interest in fighting and had proceeded to take cover. They all made it to the top of the complex, awaiting Nikolai's Hind. It began to rise in the distance, shooting towards them. The majority of Nikolai's men had gone to the third and last LZ to their land vehicles, leaving Price, Soap, Yuri, and four other men.

As the Hind flew towards them, an RPG flew forward and smashed into Nikolai's tail rudder. He fought for control but could not get the Hind to cooperate.

"Look out!" Price yelled. They ran towards the back of the building towards wires holding wood and stone at the bottom. They jumped towards them and slid down to the bottom. When Yuri had reached it, Nikolai's Hind smashed into the roof, killing the four men behind him. Yuri jumped off and began to slide down until Nikolai flew into the beam holding the wire, causing Yuri to fall to the ground with a heavy thud.

Almost immediately, the three were slammed into the wall of the complex as the sandstorm's ferocious winds forced them back. Sand flew into Yuri's eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. He coughed up sand and stood up panting.

"Yuri!" He turned and saw Soap stumbling over, Price limping behind him. "Good, you're okay!"

"That can be debatable," Yuri growled.

"Bloody hell," Soap said. "What now, Price?"

"We've got to find Nikolai," he said, limping into the village.

"Price we're in the middle of a sandstorm with militants crawling all over," Soap protested. "Are you insane?"

"I'm not leaving without him!" Price snarled.

"I don't want to leave him either, Price, he's mind friend, too!" Soap yelled. "But we can't just go looking for him in the middle of the storm when we can't see anything! We should regroup with the rest of the troops before we set off looking for him!"

"I don't care, Soap!" Price snarled. "I'm not waiting for a friend to die here! We're looking for him now!" Price shoved an M4A1 into Soap's hands and they began the long, difficult trek through the sandstorm. The small grains tore at their flesh, blood leaking from their faces. They wrapped scarfs around their faces, putting on sunglasses to protect their ideas. Unfortunately, that made the low visibility even worse.

Suddenly, they heard the sound of talking in the distance and saw militants walking towards a glowing part of the village. They knew that they must have been heading towards Nikolai's wreckage as well. Price aimed his M4A1 at them and opened fire on the militants. Soap looked at Price in shock, but he wasn't paying attention, for he'd already ran forward. Yuri and Soap followed, hearing the sound of gunfire from the place of the wreckage.

When they arrived, they saw Nikolai and one other surviving member of his men trading fire with the militants. Nikolai was badly injured, blood leaking out of him, his eyes crusted shut. He blindly fired in the direction of the militants. Price yelled something to Nikolai's man, but it was nearly inaudible to Yuri. Yuri picked up Nikolai after assuring him that they weren't the militants. They ran through the sand-swept city, bullets flying around them. They slid down a hill and met up with Nikolai's land convoy.

"Go, go, go!" Price yelled. The cars sped through the sandy village, spare gunshots flying around them. Yuri slumped down in exhaustion. He knew one thing: he was _never_ going back to Africa again.

**I'm very sorry for the slow updates guys. My job and work on a novel I'd like to get legitimately published are getting in the way of my Fan Fiction activity. I have a plan, however. After this story, I've decided that I'm going to write Black Ops (in preparation for Black Ops 2 obviously) and then immediately after that, I'm going to post the story I want to get published so I can hear everyone's opinions before I edit it. Anyhow, please review the chapter (or the whole story) and get ready for more updates!**


	19. Gate to Victory

****I have recently discovered that when I used iodine in the chapter where the tank gunner died, I really meant morphine, whereas iodine has a completely different use. Sorry for that mistake. My apologies that this is such as short chapter, but I'll explain everything at the end of the chapter. Also, if you guys and girls can tell me where I got the idea from this mission, you have good memory and can have a pat on the back ****

"Gate to Victory"

October 9th – 15:41:13, 2016

Private Claire Sanchez

Hunter 2-1, 75th Ranger Regiment

San Diego, California - Golden Gate Bridge

_Foley was furious. Despite Ramirez's protests that he'd called for he and Dunn for hours, Foley believed that he and Sanchez had gone AWOL. Ramirez was stuck in a glum, dreary mood for over a day. Dunn had worked on Sanchez for a while, patching up her wounds and indefinitely making her combat effective._

_ They had missed the battle of Los Angeles. The city was reduced to rubble after the Russians had set off a prototype containment bomb, which-in comparison-was the equivalent of a small nuclear bomb. In short, they had lost the city as well as the lives of nearly seven thousand United States soldiers, over fifteen hundred of them being the Rangers. There were now only thirty four survivors in the 75__th__ Ranger Regiment. Although Dunn tried to denounce it, Foley partly blamed Ramirez and Sanchez for the losses in LA, taking out most of his anger on the two of them._

_ Ramirez and Sanchez hardly talked or acknowledged each other when Foley and Dunn had returned to find them in the small neighborhood. Although he regretted it, Ramirez had taken his anger out on Sanchez and blamed her for Foley's anger. Now, the two hardly talked at all, much less exchanged glances._

_ "I'm glad to see that you're all alive, Wolf," Overlord said._

_ "Sir, I request that you drop the shitty 'Wolf Squad' name and just let us be Hunter 2-1," Foley growled. "I know that we're smaller now compared to what we were, but none of us are really getting along with the Wolf name, sir."_

_ "Very well," Overlord replied. "Aside from this, I'd like to inform you that survivors are being evacuated to secure locations across the country. I'm sending you in with the Marines to take San Diego. The Russians own it now and civilians are still trying to get their evacuation points. We're going to level the city."_

_ "Sir?" Dunn spoke up. "Why destroy the city?"_

_ "It's of no use to us," Overlord replied. "And latest Intel reports that the Russians are moving nuclear devices inside of the city. We need to take them out before they can use them against us, even if that means losing San Diego."_

_ "We'll get to it, sir," Foley said. "Come on, Hunter. Let's go."_

"SANCHEZ!" Ramirez screamed. She woke up on her side, her face pressed against the hard surface of the bridge. She groaned and dragged herself to her feet. She looked past the metal beams and saw the Black Hawk spiraling out of control over the expanse of water. The pilot was able to bring the controls back online and it re-stabilized.

"Claire, are you alright? Can you hear me?" Ramirez yelled. She picked up the radio and responded.

"Yeah, I'm fine," she said, briefly remembering that a SAM turret missile had exploded near them, sending her flying onto the Golden Gate Bridge. She had been thrown free of the helicopter and landed on the lower level of the bridge through a massive, gaping hole on the top level.

"Claire, we can't reach you with the Black Hawk," Ramirez reported. "We're going to drop off a Care Package with some weapons and ammo and pick you up on the far side of the bridge. Do you copy?"

"Affirmative, waiting for the package," she replied.

The Black Hawk roared overhead, the sound almost deafening. Her ears, she noted, had become exceptionally more sensitive after the SAM hit them. She'd never been so close to an actual explosion in her life, and she'd been pretty damn close to a lot. The helicopter's shadow went through the hole, blocking the sun from her sight. She stepped back and allowed the Care Package to fall from above onto the surface of the bridge.

As soon as it did, she rushed over and typed in the code Ramirez had sent to her, six-six-seven. The lock disengaged from the lid and she was able to dig into the contents of the package. She pulled out an ACR with an attached ACOG sight and under slung M203 Grenade Launcher, and a SCAR-H with a Red Dot Sight and under slung shotgun. She strapped the ACR to her back and hefted the SCAR-H, then began to run down the bridge.

Almost immediately, Russians began to rappel down to her level, firing AK47s and TAR-21s at her. She slammed into a silver car as bullets rained around her. She was about to call for assistance when she realized that the rounds from the Black Hawk would probably just destroy all of her cover and the bridge along with it. It was going to be up to her to get off the bridge alive. She inched her way to the back of the car and took potshots at the Russians. Unfortunately, they had similar ideas and used the cars littered across the bridge for cover. She adjusted the gun so the butt was pressed firmly on her left side rather than her right and fired at the Russians from her cover.

Each time that she fired a shot, her body shuddered from the force of the recoil against her left arm. She cursed the Russians for forcing her to fight as though she were left handed. She was not used to firing a gun with the amount of recoil like a SCAR-H without using her sturdier arm. Her hands were clenched around the grips of the gun to try and suppress the recoil. She heard the audible click of the SCAR-H and whipped back to reload the rifle. The Russians took advantage of the situation and began to move up, firing at her position.

She laid the gun on the ground and took out a frag grenade, pulling the pin, and then threw it after exactly two seconds of holding it. The Russians screamed and dove for cover as the grenade rolled towards a car. The fuselage of the car was directly above the grenade, causing a large explosion when it detonated. The bridge shuddered a bit before it subsided like the aftershock of an earthquake.

With the Russians in disarray, she took advantage of the situation and began to open fire on them. Their bodies crumpled into bloody heaps as the bullets flew into their bodies. When the firing had ceased, she went over to one of the Russians, curious as to why they had died so quickly. Bulletproof vests didn't make one invincible, but then again, soldiers wearing them didn't usually die so quickly. She leaned over one and examined the body.

The first thing that she noticed was that the uniform the Russian was wearing wasn't exactly the same as the Spetsnaz or any other Russian division she'd ever seen. They also were not wearing bulletproof vests, but normal clothing underneath it. There was also an embedded crest on the uniform of a misshapen Spetsnaz Insignia. She'd seen it before: the emblem of the Ultranationalists.

No matter where the war went, everything always seemed to be tracked back to the Ultranationalist party that had formed in the nineties. It seemed like the war was being choreographed by the Ultranationalists rather than the Russians. She looked ahead and began to move out again, knowing that she had to get to the other end of the bridge before she was missed. As she ran, she noticed United States Marine-issued C4 charges placed all over the bridge.

Now she knew that the bridge was going to be leveled along with the city. Her heart rate quickened and she raced forward. She saw more Russians up a head scouting the bridge. She also noted a massive tanker. Knowing full well the risk that it posed, she raised the ACR, activated the M203, raised the launcher, and fired. She flattened herself to the ground, covering her head-despite the fact that she was still wearing a helmet-and listened as the tanker exploded. Fire, shrapnel, and rubble rained all over the bridge. The sound roared in her ears, her blood felt hot, and her body instantly stiffened by automatic response to it, preparing herself for anything that my land on her.

Luckily nothing did and she was able to stand up. A few of the Ultranationalist Russians were crawling across the bridge, all of them on fire, missing limbs, and bleeding heavily from wounds that were beyond repair. The explosion weakened the support struts for the upper level, allowing her the ability to climb up towards the supported upper level.

_Well that's convenient._ She thought. She ran forward and began to clamber over the rubble towards the top of the bridge. Ramirez called in quite frantically. She reassured him that she was alright and they dropped another Care Package. At first, she was confused until she heard something over the radio link: "Hunter 2-1, you have an enemy Helo approaching your location, over." She opened the case with the same pass code, revealing several Rocket Propelled Grenade launchers. The Russian Hind flew into view. She hefted the RPG and fired the weapon. The rocket flew over the Hind completely. She loaded in another and fired. This time, it smashed into a support strut. The Hind readied up its weapons and she fired another, final rocket. It spun around in a spiral form, the rocket smashing into propellers of the Hind.

It spun out of control and smashed into the water below. The Black Hawk carrying Foley, Dunn, and Ramirez hovered over the bridge. The three rappelled onto the bridge. Claire rushed towards them.

"Sanchez!" Ramirez yelled. She ran up to him and she gave her a brief hug. She noted Foley's disapproval but didn't care. She returned it and the two walked up to them. The Black Hawk co-pilot began to lower a ladder down to them when a SAM rocket suddenly smashed into the bird. It spun around, smashing into the ground and the struts. The propellers began to grind against the pavement before there was a massive crack and the Black Hawk was engulfed in a massive ball of flame.

"Fuck!" Foley yelled. They turned back and saw that the Russians were quickly advancing on their position from behind. "Everyone run! Get the fuck out of here!" They complied and began to sprint across the bridge. Bullets flew around them, smashing into cars and pavement as they made their harried escape. Suddenly, a bullet flew through Sergeant Foley. He screamed in pain and collapsed on the ground.

"SERGEANT!" Ramirez screamed. He ran to him, Foley struggling to get back up. "Come on, sir! I'll help you up!"

"Negative, Ramirez, get out of here! I'll be right behind you!" He snarled.

"No! I'm not leaving you to die!" Ramirez protested.

"Does it look like I want to die on this bridge?" Foley roared. "Get to the fucking evac! I'll be right fucking behind you!" Ramirez looked back at the Russians then to Foley again.

"You better be, sir!" Ramirez sprinted off. Dunn and Sanchez ran alongside him.

"Where the hell is Foley?" Dunn asked.

"He's coming up behind us!" Ramirez replied. "He's coming, don't worry!"

"You better be right!" Dunn yelled.

"Foley doesn't want to die here or anywhere, anytime soon! He made sure to tell me that much!"

They trio ran to the end of the bridge escaping gunfire and receiving more reports from Overlord that the bridge and the rest of the city was going to be leveled soon. Once they made it to the base of the bridge they stopped to allow Foley time to catch up. They turned back and didn't see anyone coming.

"What the hell," Dunn said. "I though you said he was right behind us!"

"I thought he was, too!" Ramirez replied, confused. "I'm sure he's coming, just give him a minute." They waited. They waited some more. Still, no one appeared.

"Fuck it," Ramirez said, grabbing his radio. "Sergeant Foley, this is Private Ramirez. Come in, over." There was no response. "Sergeant Foley, this is Private Ramirez. _Come in, over_."

"If I had told you what I was doing, you would have never gone over that bridge." Foley said.

"What?" Dunn asked.

"Sarge," Ramirez asked. "What are you talking about?"

"I couldn't kill my squad. You have to make it. I don't have anything out there. I'm sorry, Hunter."

"Sarge, pull out!" Ramirez screamed. "PULL OUT NOW!"

"This is Sergeant Foley," his voice was filled with resignation, cracking with emotion that Ramirez and Dunn had joked was something foreign to Foley. "I am the acting commander of Hunter 2-1."

"PULL THE FUCK OUT!" Ramirez yelled.

"Sarge, get out! Get out now!" Dunn screamed. Sanchez stood aside, tears in her eyes.

"GET OUT!" Ramirez screamed hysterically.

"I am a twenty year veteran of the 75th Battalion Ranger Regiment." Foley said with slightly more confidence.

"SARGE! PULL OUT! PULL OUT!" Ramirez and Dunn screamed in horrific unison.

"Hoorah," Foley said. Suddenly, the bridge buckled and twisted, crumbling in on itself as the charges exploded, destroying the Golden Gate Bridge. Dunn and Ramirez screamed for Foley, looking down in the massive expanse of water, hoping to catch a glimpse of their Sergeant. Anything that they could save.

But Sergeant Foley, acting commander of Hunter 2-1, twenty year veteran of the 75th Battalion Ranger Regiment, father of four children in Chicago, forty five year old Sergeant, and an incredibly honorable and loyal soldier of the United States, was gone.

**That was actually a difficult chapter to write. Although I said bad stuff about Foley for all of the "Ramirez!" jokes, I was actually sad to see him go, but I have a really good idea of how I want this story to end up. Strangely, now that school is back in session, it's easier for me to write rather than spending so much more time actually playing the video games I own and making my Machinimas (the only bad part is that I have to once again deal with annoying Freshmen [no offense if you're a Freshmen]). I should be finished with this story in about a month or so. Anyhow, I decided against my original plan of making a Black Ops story and then writing my own story on FF. Although I do love CoD, I think that to truly refresh my writing skills, I have to take a break from making Call of Duty stories and go on to my favorite video game of all time: Halo. Now I will not be making stories of all the Halo games, I'll make a video on my channel and give my loyal readers the link so you can have a refresher on the Halo storyline (or even tell you about it if you don't know it yet) and I'll tell the story of Halo 4 on FF. I know that many CoD fans may not enjoy Halo, but if you like my CoD stories, you will probably enjoy the same writing style with a Halo story. Hopefully** **you'll enjoy this story as much as I do writing it and that you'll give my Halo 4 story a chance when I write it. See you all soon!**

**-WOLF**


	20. Ghost in the Mist

"Ghost in the Mist"

October 10th – 06:19:54, 2016

SGT Marcus Burns

SAS (Special Air Service)

London, England

"_I don't know, sir," Griffin argued. His arm was badly hurt, but he still had more than enough will to fight. "I'm not sure that we can trust him. _

_ Burns stood by silently watching them. In the back of the room was a man wearing sunglasses, a scarf, and a blood-stained skull mask leaned against a wall with his arms crossed over his chest. Burns didn't know what to make of him. Just two days after the gas attacks and a man claiming that he knew Captain Price came on their doorstep saying he was going to help them? It was ridiculous. Ludicrous. What sane man would believe it?_

_ Yet he was a warrior, and that was what they needed. The Russians were persistent, pushing into British grounds every day. American forces were too deep into the other countries to send enough reinforcements, doing battle with Russian forces in the rest of Europe. China and Japan continued to fight their way into southern Ukraine and Kazakhstan, trying to beat back Russian forces into their massive country, America trying their best to push into Moscow._

_ Very few countries truly trusted America after the Moscow Massacre save for Europe, China, and Japan. Russia still fully blamed America for what happened in the Zakhaev International Airport, save for rebels that fought in the streets of Russia._

_ "He's all we've got, though," Wallcroft said. "All of our forces are engaged with the Russians on the coast. Only half of the SAS are headed there. We can't defend our city ourselves, and if he knows Price then he knows how to fight."_

_ "You trust him after what Price did?" Griffin gasped. "We can't trust any of them!"_

_ "Look, it's not like this is Price we're dealing with, just a man who knew him. We knew him, too," Wallcroft glanced at Ghost, and then returned his attention to Griffin. "We don't have a choice. Burns, what do you think?"_

_ "We should take any advantage we can if we're going to fight," Burns replied. "He seems good enough and we might as well take the initiative and accept his help."_

_ Griffin glared at Burns with a look of betrayal in his eyes. Burns didn't care, though. Ghost didn't seem too bad and it seemed more like Griffin was taking jabs at him. Ever since the train incident, he'd been quite moody. Ghost shifted his weight and coughed, returning their attention to the situation at hand. Wallcroft looked at Burns and Griffin, and then continued towards Ghost._

_ "Alright, mate," Wallcroft said. "We're allowing you to help because you're all that we got, but if you try anything you've a guaranteed bulled through your head, do you understand?"_

_ "Aye," Ghost replied. "I got it, mate."_

_ "Alright everyone, let's go," Wallcroft said._

The rain had not subsided. It seemed that the elements were against the British in every way. The clouds overhead were dark with smoke and soot from the fires burning away the beautiful country. They'd all seen the pictures from the US; it seemed that their horror had reached England as well. Beyond the buildings was the crimson glow of fire and explosions. Ash fluttered down from the sky, only to be smashed by the rain and propelled to the surface.

They all wore gas masks to protect themselves from the harmful effects of the ash. Too much inhaled into the system would cause permanent-and indefinitely fatal-damage to the respiratory system. That was just perfect; first it was gas attacks, now they had to worry about bloody ash getting into their lungs.

Ghost insisted on wearing his own, smaller breathing apparatus that fit underneath his mask. To the disliking of the team, he stubbornly refused to take the mask and sunglasses off. Burns was beginning to side with Griffin on this one; Ghost didn't seem like he could be fully trusted. Burns clicked off the safety of his suppressed G36C, a weapon that they'd been loaned by the French._ I bet they're regretting that now, the poor bastards. _Burnsthought. After France was hit, he was positive that they would need all the weapons that they could muster. The GIGN wasn't the most particularly battle-hardened group of individuals the world has ever known, and since they'd given a significant amount of weapons to the British, they would have to depend on the soldiers of the United States to help them fight off the Russians. For the British, however, they were on their own.

Wallcroft sat across from Burns, looking through his binocular lenses over the rooftops. They sat in an abandoned, shelled out building amongst the ruins of the outskirts of London. Griffin and Ghost sat on another building the next block over, using their RSASS Sniper Rifles to survey the area in the small neighborhood that they were on. Bodies littered the houses and streets, killed either by the gas attacks or the bombing raids. The sight of so many dead civilians sickened Burns to the core; now he understood why the US had gone to war against the Taliban fifteen years prior, or how they felt about seeing so many of their dead in their country now with the Russians waging a new bloody World War.

The world didn't make sense anymore. So much death and destruction surrounded them. Luckily, no faction had been dumb enough to unleash nuclear weapons save for the Americans using extremely lethal missiles to destroy the Russian fleet in the New York Harbor. There were rumors of a massive-and possibly nuclear-explosion going off a few miles out of range of the US, but that was still part of the unconfirmed reports.

Whatever the Yanks were doing in southern Europe, it didn't concern the British. It was their war, now. Beating the Russians off of British soil was the most crucial thing to think about at this point, and allowing them past London-or into it, for that matter-was absolutely unacceptable. Burns didn't even want to think about what would happen if the bastards reached Hereford…

"We've got MIGs inbound!" Wallcroft yelled.

"Roger, we see them!" Griffin reported. "Orders, sir?"

"Stay low and out of range," Wallcroft ordered. "If they have thermal sensors it'll be more difficult to track us in this maelstrom." Wallcroft looked over at Burns, nodding. He returned the gesture and the two rushed to the lower level, hiding out in one of the bedrooms. They leaned back against a large wardrobe, Wallcroft looking over to spy on the MIGs.

Burns tapped his rifle with his index finger, a nervous habit he seemed to have picked up recently. He pulled back the pin and made sure-even though he distinctly recalled turning it off-that the safety was turned off and in firing mode. As he'd only briefly used the G36C in training, he switched the firing mode to semi-automatic as to reduce the recoil of the gun. The MIGs screeched overhead, flying past their position.

The two scrambled to the window and watched them go. Wallcroft switched to his night vision capable lenses and peered at them. He adjusted the lenses for optical enhancement and waited for a few moments.

"Their payloads are out," he stated. "They must be going back to refuel and rearm somewhere."

"They were going deeper into the country, though," Burns argued. "Did we already lose London?"

"No," Griffin growled with a tone that left no room for disagreement. "Never. We can't have lost it yet. The battle hasn't even truly begun."

"Well we're never going to find out from here," Wallcroft said. "Get to your vehicles, we're Oscar Mike."

Burns followed Wallcroft outside of the apartment complex and to the truck they'd hotwired. Wallcroft jumped in the driver's seat, Burns in shotgun. They began to slowly roll down the street as Ghost and Griffin came into view with their own truck. The lights on both had been shot as to prevent the Russians from seeing them. The headlights were a dead giveaway to life below, and they were determined to keep the Russians thinking that there wasn't any life at this point. It wasn't too far off, though.

They raced down the streets and deeper into London. Soon, the buildings began to show signs of more recent bombings, some still smoking and suffering from small flames inside. As they continued forward, each kilometer began to get worse. Fires burned brighter, buildings collapsing and littering the streets. Cobblestone and brick was scattered across the streets, bodies of soldiers and civilians littered like ragdolls across the town. Wallcroft looked at Burns; through the goggles, Burns could see the look of hopelessness and despair in his eyes. That was the true defeat of war: knowing that you are without hope.

Wallcroft punched the steering wheel. Burns sighed, looking forward as the flames began to consume entire blocks. One of them could not withstand the fire's might and the supports snapped like tooth picks, crumbling to the ground and causing more widespread destruction. As the streets became more and more cluttered, the maneuverability of the trucks was greatly increased. When they knew that trying to avoid the dead and continue through the city was impossible, they exited their vehicles and continued on foot.

The four soldiers were silent as they plodded through the darkened streets. Words cannot express the feeling of defeat that they shared. Hope had abandoned them, and with it, their spirits died down and their will to fight was decreased. For all they knew, the other men and women of the SAS were dead; they'd heard no radio chatter, no crossfire. They could only hear the sound of their reverberating hearts as they continued through the streets of London.

****Look up "Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows OST – Courtyard Apocalypse" and play it here****

"So, this is how it ends, eh?" Ghost mused. "End of the world as we know it is right at our doorstep."

"Let's just focus on what we can still save," Wallcroft said. His voice was little more than a murmur, a true sign of the defeat that he felt inside. They all felt it; it was as though icy tendrils had them ensnared in a web of hopelessness.

As they ran through the streets, gunfire could be heard closer to the clock tower nearby, and the screams of dying soldiers and civilians could be heard. Rushing towards the sound, the four ran forward to do combat with the Russians and save what was still alive.

"There, down the street!" Wallcroft cried. They raised their weapons and opened fire on the Russians as they did battle with a few more SAS survivors. Their bullets flew straight and true, sinking into the unprotected flesh of the Russian Spetsnaz. Unfortunately, that provoked the entire army to surge from the city. They linked up with about forty of the SAS and ran through the streets, firing shots at the Russians as they evaded collapsing buildings and RPG crossfire.

For every Russian they brought down, three more would come to take its place. The SAS were not so fortunate. Wallcroft led the way as they sped through the city, trying to reach transport or some way out of the city. The battle was lost before it had even begun. They continued to race out of the city, sprinting away and giving complete disregard to the existence of the Russians. It wasn't even worth firing at them anymore. Their war was already done.

"Down here!" Ghost yelled. Burns, Wallcroft, and Griffin followed him down a large alley towards a darkened garage. Ghost tried in vain to pull the door upwards, but something on the other side appeared to be blocking him. Griffin rushed to help, the two raising the garage door slowly. When they finally opened it, a light turned on inside-and nearly thirty Russians fired their weapons into Griffin, killing him.

"NO!" Wallcroft screamed. They opened fire on him, as well, just the same as they did Burns. Ghost, however, remained completely unscathed. He walked up effortlessly to the Russians and shook the bastard's hand! Burns' mind rebelled at what he saw.

"You bastard," Wallcroft groaned. "What the bloody hell are you doing?"

"I made a deal with Makarov," Ghost growled. "I can live if I help in his plan."

"You fool!" Burns gasped. "He'll kill you as well!" Ghost laughed; a disgusting, gruff, and scratchy sound. He tore the mask off and threw down the glasses, taking the hood off of his head. It exposed a hideously scarred and deformed face, burned and torn to shreds. His lips were almost completely torn apart or nonexistent, his teeth-what was left of them-showing through his black, disgusting gums. His right eye bulged from its mutilated socket, his cheek bones visible for them to see.

"This is what I got for following the orders of people like you!" He screeched, blood flying from his wounds as scabs cracked and veins popped. "Makarov has a plan-a vision! He has shown me what power truly is and I'll take full advantage of it!" With that, he raised a pistol to Wallcroft's head and fired, killing him instantly. Then, he turned it to Burns. He could see lightly inside of the barrel of the pistol.

In a heartbeat that seemed to have lasted an eternity, his life flashed before his eyes. He accepted his inevitable death. He silently whispered his apologies to his country and to his rulers. He looked up at the horrible face, the servant of Makarov.

"I'm ready to die," Burns growled. "Are you?"

**The more I say that I'm going to update more, the more guilty I become when I don't. I'm sorry; school doesn't get easier and I have a MAJOR case of writer's block that makes this far more difficult to write. The closer Halo 4 gets to being released, the more apprehensive I become as I'm preordering the game (yes, I am a HUGE Halo fan).**

**I don't quite know when this story will be finished. I'll try to finish it by the end of the year but when Halo 4 is released, I'm not sure that'll be happening. It may even be due to the fact that MW3 has grown out of my favor; the more and more I play it, the less and less I like it. Now, CoD 4 will always be my favorite Call of Duty title, and MW2 had a great campaign despite its horrendous multiplayer, but MW3 just is all around not a very good game. I hate to say it, but I-like many former CoD gamers-am growing out of favor of CoD.**

**After trying out a lot of different games like Halo, Battlefield, Medal of Honor, Mass Effect, Gears of War, Mortal Combat, and many other video games, I've noticed how much I've started to dislike the CoD series. The campaign of MW3 didn't truly live up to that of the first to Modern Warfare titles, and very few of the missions were actually ones that I liked. I may be skipping some of them to make this story go on a bit faster, just skimming over a few things that were important to the storyline up until big things in the storyline. I do truly hope that Black Ops 2 changes my mind about CoD, but after my response with MW3, it doesn't look like it'll turn out well. Black Ops was one of my favorites and I do believe that Treyarch can make excellent games, but with all the bad things I've seen with the Black Ops 2 multiplayer, it looks like campaign and zombies may not even be able to hold me to the franchise. I will not abandon this story and will continue to write it until I reach the Epilogue chapter (which, yes, I have planned out and will be after Dust to Dust).**

**Anyhow, I'll see all of you later with my next update. If you can tell me what you think I should do in the comments, that would be very appreciated, and I would like at least three reviews on this chapter or the story so far, but mostly to tell me what I should do at this point. Until then…**

**-WOLFxVSlayer667**


	21. Bag and Drag

"Bag and Drag"

October 9th – 14:10:09, 2016

SGT Derek "Frost" Westbrook

Delta Force

Montmartre Hill, Paris, France

"_Gentlemen, the French special forces have located Volk," Overlord reported, studying the holographic display charts. He nodded to the operator and the hologram transitioned to the next area, allowing him a full view of France in a one hundred click radius of the Eiffel Tower. Bombed out buildings and destroyed streets covered what was left of France. The GIGN had put up as good a fight as they could, but they were fighting a losing war. _

_ The Russians had pushed them back down the streets, killing them off in their own homes. The catacombs beneath the streets of Paris had collected more dead people then the ancient bones that were already buried under them. Gas attacks had killed off over sixty eight percent of the French population within a matter of hours. _Hours_. Overlord shook his head in disgust, unable to fathom the lengths of which the Russians would go to exact their revenge. He knew, however, that the biggest contribution to the Russians' aggressive and hostile behavior was Vladimir Makarov._

_ He knew little about the Ultranationalist terrorist leader, and from the few things he'd actually heard of them-fact or lie, he knew not-ensured Overlord that he would rather not know the details of the genocidal murderer. He knew, however, that as long as Makarov lived, the war would continue unless Russia was nothing but ashes and every last fighting man was cut down._

_ "The GIGN has tracked him down deeper within the city, but they're pinned down deep behind enemy lines." Overlord finished._

_ "And I take it that you want us to _un_pin them, right?" Sandman asked. _

_ The holographic display chart allowed him a live visual of Delta Squad, sitting in a small crew's quarter's room aboard one of the United States aircraft carriers approximately four miles off the coast of the French ports. Overlord looked at the man, Frost, with scrutiny. There was something off about the soldier; he seemed more glum and drawn out than Overlord had ever seen him before. Then again, they were in the middle of a war. Overlord would be more surprised if he was in high spirits than anything else._

_ "Affirmative, Metal 0-1," Overlord said, approving the mission objective. "You may prosecute the target as needed but I want the President back alive by any means necessary, is that clear?" He received nods from the soldiers. "Good. Is there anything else your contact decided to tell you that you can tell me, or is that classified as well?"_

_ "My apologies, sir," Sandman replied. "But that's all I can tell you. I'll give you a full debrief when we're back home."_

_ "We'll have a drink over it," Overlord said, smiling. "Good luck, men. Overlord out."_

"Truck, Frost, let's go!" Sandman yelled. They leaped out of the low hovering Black Hawk and onto the stone roof of the shell-shocked building. In the distance, the Eiffel Tower stood proudly, unaffected by the events of the war. The view from the rooftop would have been nothing less of beautiful if the buildings weren't half destroyed, gas and smoke not drifting into the air, and corpses not littering the ground like trash and refuse left by careless civilians.

Frost was still shaken by the tank gunner's death. He knew the man; he'd befriended him. The worst part was that Frost had accidentally shot him. He could be put down for that! Mistake or not, he'd shot an ally and a friend now he was responsible for the death. Sandman was the only one that knew. Grinch and Truck didn't have any part of it, but Frost knew that Sandman still trusted him despite his mistake. It was up to him to prove that he could still go on and prove he was a good soldier.

Sandman warned them to keep their gas masks on as Overlord informed them of the location of the GIGN forces. Clicking off the safety of his SCAR-L and adjusting the optical ACOG sight, he leaped down from rooftop to rooftop, following Sandman and Truck through the buildings and towards the other end of the complex.

Homes were ravaged and filled with corpses of family and friends, killed instantaneously as the gas was detonated in thousands of locations across the city. Open windows and bombed out rooftops allowed gas to leak in. The sight of the dead civilians was almost too much for Frost to bear, and he swore to beat the living shit out of Volk when they found them for doing what he'd done.

He already heard the conversation between the legendary Captain Price and Sandman. Until five hours ago, Frost was led to believe that Price died in Pripyat, Ukraine. Obviously, the man was even able to cheat death once on the bridge in Russia, again in Ukraine, and still a third time in the infamous Task Force 141 purge. It was shocking to hear Price reveal that General Shepherd, a man that the United States-civilian, politician, and soldier alike-looked up to, respected, feared, and adored. He was supposed to be a hero; now Delta Force knew the terrible secret that Shepherd was a traitorous bastard that killed his own men when he discovered that they were on to what he did.

Hearing about his affiliation with Makarov was even worse. Who would have ever thought that Shepherd would give him a nuclear bomb and cold-heartedly murder over thirty thousand marines? It was ludicrous! Yet he did it, and thanks to Soap MacTavish, he was no longer around to testify for his wrong doing. _Good_, Frost thought. _He deserved to die for what he did_.

Nevertheless, they continued through the buildings towards the location of the GIGN. The sound of gunfire rose from above the buildings as they rushed through the complex section of apartments. They were constantly slowed down when they had to scale the side of the buildings to make it to other sections of the apartments. When they were running down the stairs towards the street floor to cut through the public library, GIGN contacted them.

"American Forces, where the bloody hell are you?" A French man yelled over the radio link. Gunfire could be heard through his radio.

"We're almost there, cutting through the library!" Sandman replied, quickening his pace. "ETA, two minutes!"

"Alright, just hurry!" He yelled, cutting the link.

"Man," Truck said as they began to rush down the final staircase. "I heard that the French military was shit but this is just ridiculous!" Immediately, bullets flew through the windows and walls around them. "FUCK!" Truck yelled.

"Down the stairs, quickly!" Sandman ordered. Narrowly dodging gunfire, they rushed down to the entrance of the library-as well as the source of the gunfire. Truck provided suppressing fire from the outside as Sandman and Frost rushed in, firing at the Russians and using the bookcases for cover.

Bullets flew through the store, pages and book covers flying aimlessly as the three soldiers fought their way through the store. When the last Russian fell, they rallied up at the rear door. Sandman kicked it in and they ran down the alleyway. Russians backed into it, firing at another adjacent street. Before they could raise their weapons, bullets flew from the other street, sinking into the bodies of the Russians.

The GIGN forces rushed into the alley, finishing off the last of the Russians. After calling out to them, the GIGN led Sandman, Truck, and Frost into the back entrance of a nearby diner. After knocking in code on the metallic door, it opened and allowed them all inside the kitchen. There was not food inside of it, however. Rather, there were stockpiles of weapons and ammunition inside. Sandman walked up to the Lieutenant in charge of the GIGN platoon as Tuck and Frost loaded up on ammunition, explosives, and given G36C Assault Rifles equipped with ACOG sights, Laser Designators, and an attached Bipod underneath the rail to provide them with stability when prone.

There was a large rumble from somewhere in the city, shaking the building. Bullets and a few discarded weapons fell to the floor while pots and pans clanged together where they hung in the kitchen. Everyone nervously looked up and around the kitchen, clutching their guns tighter as though to reassure themselves that they had means of defense.

Sandman returned his attention to the Lieutenant and they began to talk over the mission more. Frost only picked up small parts of what they were saying, only hearing things like "Volk," "Tunnels," and "Riverside." When the two had finally seemed to have come to a conclusion, the Lieutenant called out to four more of the GIGN soldiers, Sandman motioning for Frost and Truck to join them.

"We're going to cut through the suburbs," Sandman told them. "The Lieutenant's going to take us through the sewers and catacombs to reach Volk faster." They nodded and the team of eight ran out of the diner and into the street.

The Russians were nowhere to be seen, so they continued down the right side of the street up towards a small plaza. Unfortunately, the Russians were stationed here, forcing them to fight their way up the stairs. Frost raised his SCAR-L and opened fire on the Russians in a bar to the left. The bullets flew through what was left of the window and into the unsuspecting Spetsnaz inside. As soon as one gun fired, multiple weapons discharged, bullets flying everywhere.

Frost rushed to the side of the bar and kicked in the window, allowing him access into the bar. He finished off one of the Russians that survived his first assault, then moved to a better vantage point to take semiautomatic shots at the Russians stationed in a small shop across the walkway. As soon as the first Russian fell, three more opened fire on Frost's location, forcing him to cover.

He loaded a GP25 Grenade Launcher round, cocked back the pin, and then peered over the side of the counter. He lifted the gun slightly, calculating the distance and trajectory of the grenade and-when he was satisfied with his calculations-fired the round into the store. It impacted on one of the pillars inside and brought forth a large explosion from within the store. The supports were unable to sustain the force of the explosion and whatever Russians inside that weren't killed by bullets or the GP25 rounds were killed by the collapsing building around them.

Frost clicked the safety on his Grenade Launcher and reengaged the bullet magazine cartridge rounds on his SCAR-L. They finished off the last of the Russians and continued up the stairs. A few brief firefights ensued on the streets on the upper levels before they were able to make it the stairs leading to the lower levels of the city.

When they got there, gunfire forced them to the sides. Frost looked over the garden gate he hid behind for a heartbeat to assess the situation below. Three BTR Tanks, two armored vehicles, and countless Russians swarmed the streets below.

"Ah, Grinch?" Frost called into his radio. "We may need some help here!"

"What's going on?" Grinch asked.

"It looks like we've got half of Moscow down there!" Truck yelled from across the stairs. "Think you can back us up?"

"Affirmative," Grinch replied. "We've got a few AC-130 Gunships above. I'll clear it with Overlord and get those flyboys down to you. Standby." After several moments, Grinch radioed back in. "Alright, there's a gunship in your area. Throw down some smoke and they'll light up the fuckers with a couple one-oh-five rounds."

Frost thanked him and pulled out a colored smoke canister. He unpinned the clip and threw it down the stairs into the mass of Russians below. The gunfire ceases temporarily as the Russians inspected the can. Unfortunately for them, the AC-130 was faster than their minds. The 105 millimeter cannon fired from the gunship above, devastating the area below. One of the BTRs flew into one of the buildings, the others simply blowing up. An armored vehicle flew up the stairs, smashing into the stone as it went before coming to a halt before it reached the GIGN and Delta soldiers.

Two more 105 rounds flew down, which-at least to Frost-seemed like overkill. A building collapsed on the left side of the stairs and any limbs or appendages that were blown off from their bodies were incinerated or pounded to dust by the second and third round. The AC-130 requested a sitrep, which Sandman gave to them graciously.

They continued down the streets of France, fighting in and around buildings, calling in two more AC-130 support fire missions when the found it necessary. Overlord reported that they were nearing Volk's convoy, encouraging them to run faster to get there. When they did, however, all they were met with were burnt, empty vehicles.

The Lieutenant walked past them and towards a sewer hatch. He unscrewed the seals and hefted the hatch onto the brick street. He clicked on the flashlight of his G36C and slid down the ladder. Frost looked at Sandman. He shrugged and slid down the ladder. Truck and Frost followed afterward, the four other GIGN forces choosing to stay topside and try to cut off Volk if they made it out of the sewers.

Frost dropped down to the sewers, clicking on his flashlight. Sandman looked at him and motioned for him to cut the light, telling him they only needed one light source. Sandman took out a small pad and clicked a red button on its surface. He began to pace around the sewer entrance as the device beeped slowly. Finally, a small green light appeared on the pad and it made a louder beeping noise.

Sandman took off his mask and pocketed the pad.

"Alright," he said. "There's no contamination readouts in this area. Keep your eyes open and let's go get this guy." They all nodded, allowing the Lieutenant to take the lead down the tunnels. He pried open a door into the main sewer and they continued down into the lower levels. Truck's face contorted and he made a gagging noise.

"Man, it smells like shit in here," Truck stated.

"Yeah," Frost agreed. "But at least this smell won't kill you."

"True enough there, my friend."

"Cut the chatter," Sandman ordered. "Lieutenant, what happened to the rest of the GIGN?"

"The gas attacks hit Satori base at four hundred hours last night," the Lieutenant replied bitterly. "Most of my men died within minutes. The men up above are the last of millions that were formerly part of our forces."

"I had a few friends in Satori," Sandman said absently, as though at a loss for words. The Lieutenant said something in French.

"This is why Volk and Makarov must pay for their wrongs," he growled.

"Don't worry," Sandman replied. "We'll make sure of that. Hey, Frost, Grinch-lie down some flares so Overlord can get a Ranger QRF down here."

"Roger that," Truck said. They began popping red flares on the sewer walkways. They began to traverse the inner tunnels, climb up and around rocks and pipes, and then were met with one of the most horrific sights they'd ever seen.

The walls, pillars, and ceiling were made up of countless bones. The corroded, yellowing remnants of human beings littered the catacombs. Empty eye sockets of skulls watched them as they continued forward. They'd heard of the French catacombs before; they just never thought they were actually real.

"How many bodies do you think are buried down here?" Truck whispered.

"No idea," Frost replied. "Let's just focus on making sure our bodies don't join 'em."

Truck nodded as the four continued up through the catacombs and into the upper levels of the tunnels. So far, they hadn't seen any sign that the Russians had been down there. They didn't even see any sign that anyone was down there in the past few decades.

"Where the bloody hell," The Lieutenant growled as he stepped near a caged doorway. "Are all of Volk's men-?"

Suddenly, a Russian soldier slammed into him from the doorway, wielding a dagger in one hand and a gun in the other. He screamed at the top of his lungs as the Lieutenant tried to fight him off. Frost raised his gun and fired at the Russian. As he dropped a canister flew through the doorway ahead.

"FLASHBANG!" Truck yelled. Suddenly, Frost's world went white and his ears rung as though explosions went off next to his ears. He collapsed clutching his ears and closing his eyes, trying to block out the pain. After several moments, he forced his eyes open and tried ignoring the pain. He picked up his gun and rounded the corner. A fat, pig-faced man wielding a P99 pistol was directly in front of him, surrounded by several soldiers. It was Volk.

Sandman, Truck, and the Lieutenant rushed in, firing at the Russians as Volk ran off. Refusing to let him escape, Frost pursued. They rounded up a staircase and into more tunnels. Despite his weight, Volk appeared to be very well capable of running when in danger. Frost was unable to risk a shot at his legs and continued following him. A few Russians appeared around the corner, but he cut them down instantly as he followed Volk. His SCAR-L was out of ammunition, so he dropped it and took out his G36C and sprinted after him.

Volk looked up at a ladder and began climbing it. The metal rungs shook as he took each shaky step. Frost clambered up after him, grabbing his ankle. Volk cried out and kicked Frost in the face, sending him falling back down the ladder to the surface. He landed on his back, feeling bones crack in his body. He groaned and picked himself back up, following Volk.

They reached the top of the ladder and Volk continued running through the building. As he continued to follow him, Frost noticed the bodies of the four dead GIGN soldiers that had volunteered to stay behind and cut off Volk if they could. Frost growled and ran faster. He was not fast enough, however, and Volk managed to get in a silver car and drive off.

Sandman and Truck ran from behind him. The Lieutenant was not with them.

"Where's the Lieutenant?" Frost asked. Truck shook his head sorrowfully. They had lost Volk and all of their GIGN backup. The mission was a failure. Frost, however, saw a large truck on the other end of the street. He pointed towards it and they rushed to it. Gunfire from nearby Russian forces flew around them. They dodged each shot narrowly before leaping into it.

Truck took the wheel and slammed on the ignition-luckily, the last guy who was in it left the keys in. Frost kicked the shattered windshield and they flew down the street. Frost fired the G36C out the window and at the Russian forces when Sandman called back to him.

He climbed over the seats and into the back where Sandman gave him an L86 SAW Heavy Machinegun.

"Where the hell did you get that?" Frost asked.

"I found it!" Sandman replied, kicking open the back door. "Now help me get these bastards off of our tail!" Frost took the gun and nodded, firing out the back at the Russian vehicles and foot soldiers.

"I found him!" Truck yelled. "I got Volk! I'm in pursuit!"

"Good!" Sandman yelled. "Stay on him, we'll keep these guys off of our asses!" Armored vehicles followed them as they pursued Volk down a street near a large river. Truck warned them to hold on as he flew through a doorway into a museum. A large Russian Hind flew over the building, firing shots at them through the upper windows.

Frost reloaded the clip and pulled back the pin. He redirected his fire at the Hind when they exited the building and, with Sandman's assistance, were able to kill the pilot, sending the Hind out of control and into another building in the city. Truck called back and Frost climbed back into the front seat as they followed Volk. He fired out of the windshield at the car, sending it out of control and smashing into buildings as it went deeper into the city.

Truck floored the gas pedal and smashed into Volk's car. Frost fired his L86 at the Russians inside, careful to not fire on Volk. Truck gave one last push on the ignition and they flew into a large gate. The small car couldn't take it and it flew into the air, flipping over until it came to a halt near a brick wall. Truck slammed into the car, smashing it between them and the wall. The three rushed out of the truck and ran up to the car, finishing off any surviving Spetsnaz inside.

"Overlord," Sandman called as he pulled Volk out of the windshield. "We've got Volk! Don't we, you son of a bitch!" He punched Volk repeatedly until he stopped resisting them. He slammed him onto the ground and handcuffed him.

"Affirmative, Sandman," Overlord replied. "We're sending an evacuation Osprey to your location. Good job, gentlemen. Overlord, out."

**That must have been my fastest update in several months =D make sure to comment on the chapter! Thanks for reading, everyone!**

**-WOLF**


	22. Blood Brothers

**NOTE: This is a repost of the chapter I initially posted yesterday. I realized that I accidentally was writing "Kaffarov" rather than "Kamarov" in this chapter. If you haven't already read this, please take the time to read the note at the end of the chapter. Otherwise, enjoy!**

"Blood Brothers"

October 11th – 07:52:13, 2016

Yuri

Task Force 141, DISAVOWED

Prague, Czech Republic

_Too much was happening too fast. The Americans had found Volk and had given them everything that the survivors of the Task Force 141 wanted-and needed-to know. After a long, grueling night fighting alongside Sergeant Kamarov's Russian Resistance, a night that brought much death and destruction to the city, they had made it to the old city square where Makarov and his council would meet. They were so close; so tantalizingly close. _

_ Yuri could practically taste the sweet revenge that he would exact on Makarov. He would hang his mangled corpse by his decaying entrails and parade the sickening thing throughout Moscow. Finally, after almost a year, he would take revenge on Makarov for what he did to Yuri…and to Kasovach. Yuri clenched his fists, the emblem of Kasovach held tightly in his grasp. He would not kill Makarov out of his own selfish desires; no, he would avenge his friend, of the only man that had seemed like a true father to him._

_ The things Makarov did to Kasovach were nothing less of unspeakable. He seethed, his lust for blood clouding his mind. He held the sniper rifle tightly until his knuckles turned white, his jaw clenched and teeth grinding against each other. He felt a small nudge to his right. He turned to see Soap's familiar face._

_ "You alright, Yuri?" He asked, genuinely concerned._

_ "Da," he replied. "I am." Soap shrugged and rested against a pile of rubble in the old church tower. Across the square was the massive building that Price was hiding in, waiting to kill Makarov if he came close enough. Soap took out a wallet and began to look into the photographs inside. A sense of longing emanated from him. _

_ "Who are they?" Yuri asked, looking at the picture of a woman and three children. Soap smiled with amusement. _

_ "Who do you think?" Soap pocketed the wallet. "Haven't seen my family in over a year. I can't even imagine what they think now; now that we're outlaws and on the run."_

_ "Perhaps they know that you are innocent." Yuri suggested. Soap grunted in response. _

_ "So how will we know what car he's in?" Soap asked._

_ "They constantly rotate for security purposes," Yuri explained. "We won't know until he steps out."_

_ "You seem to know a lot about Makarov," Soap observed. "How is that?"_

_ "Remind me to tell you that when he's dead," Yuri replied, peering out over the square. "It's a long story."_

"He's almost here!" Price called into the radio. Yuri bolted over to his sniper and loaded it quickly, taking up a sniping position on the tower. Soap followed suite, loading his rifle and fitting a suppressor on the barrel. They didn't want anyone to see their location, so the suppressors were necessary. Unfortunately, it meant it had to be an instant kill, and to get that, they needed a clear shot at him.

The cool autumn day left an eerie feel on the area. Finally, revenge would belong to them and their names would be cleared. The black cars, BTRs, and armored vehicles rolled out into sight. One of Makarov's men ran out from inside of the building and up to one of the cars. The window lowered and revealed that hideous, hated face.

"Bloody hell," Soap growled. "We can see the bastard!"

"Do you have a shot?" Price asked.

"Negative," Yuri snarled. "That damned soldier is standing right in our way!"

"Patience," Price said, soothingly. "Don't do anything stupid. We still have a chance. I'm moving into position. If there're any guards on the balcony, I'd appreciate it if you took them out before I get there."

"Roger that," Soap replied. "Taking them out now." They began to fire upon the soldiers, the suppressed gunshots keeping the enemy from discovering them. Once Soap gave the all-clear, Price rappelled down from the top of the building from the clock tower and onto the balcony. He stealthily slipped into the building, calling for Kamarov.

Soap had not told Yuri much about Kamarov, simply eluding to events five years prior when Zakhaev's Ultranationalist army was still in power. When Kamarov did not respond to Price, Soap shook his head.

"He probably forgot to switch it on," he sighed. "I guess we're in this without him."

"I suppose so," Price said. "Wait, someone's coming up the elevator! Watch my back, this is probably it!" Yuri tensed, ready to take the shot if he needed to. The seconds that went by felt like years. Yuri tried to relax his muscles, careful to remember Kasovach's training. When the door finally opened, Price whipped inside, aiming his pistol inside. It was not Makarov. Nor was it any other Ultranationalist sitting in that chair. It was Kamarov.

**Price**

He looked at Kamarov with sorrow. The old man was beaten, bloodied, and strapped to a chair. C4 explosives were strapped to his body, red lights flashing across him. Tears streamed down his face and into his dark beard. For a moment that seemed like an eternity, the two stared at each other. Ever since the nasty business in Beirut, the battles they underwent in Russia in an attempt to end the Ultranationalist threat once and for all, even when Kamarov had saved Price's life on that bridge…it was all to lead to this one, final moment in their historical epic.

Kamarov had been a loyal friend to Price, attending his supposed funeral when Price was presumed dead. Kamarov had refused to believe he was dead, leading his men to Pripyat himself to search for any clues as to what really happened to Price. Over the years, however, even Kamarov had to admit failure.

When he was found in the Gulag, Kamarov contacted Price immediately, apologizing for not searching further. When the war began, Kamarov and his personal army had gone underground. They had helped Price, Soap, Yuri, and Nikolai get this far into Russian territory to find Makarov and end the madness. He was a true friend and ally to them all.

To see his once confident face broken and resigned was a scene of revelation to Price; it portrayed just how a man's will can be broken, how he can crumble when faced with the true reality of imminent death.

"Price! Price, who is it!" Soap cried into the radio. Price did not hear it. He could not.

"Kamarov," he whispered.

"What? Kamarov?" Soap exclaimed. "Price, get the bloody hell out of there!"

"I'm sorry, Price!" Kamarov sobbed. "I'm so, so sorry!"

**Yuri**

The room exploded right before their eyes. Yuri's eyes closed and hiss head fell against his gun in sorrow. Price and Kamarov were both gone. Soap was screaming into the radio, trying to get a hold of Price, but there wasn't even a signal.

"You don't have to worry about your friend, Ghost; I've already taken care of him and his allies as well. After all, I can't afford to have any traitor in my group. One who betrays can betray again," an eerie, hated voice hissed in the radio. It was Makarov. "Yuri, my friend; you never should have come here." Soap looked at Yuri, his face contorted in an expression of confusion, then of revelation and hatred.

"What the hell is he talking about?" Soap asked, his voice little more than a whisper.

"Soap, I-" he began. Suddenly, a beep sounded from behind them and he felt Soap push him out of the window and down several stories to the streets below. They crashed onto the wooden overhangs and tapestries as they tumbled down. The church blew up seconds later, and before Yuri hit the ground, he realized that Soap was not trying to kill him; even when he discovered the truth, he was trying to save him. Soap was not so lucky as to hit many of the objects on the way down.

**Soap**

As he hit the ground, visions of his past flew through his mind. His seventh birthday; asking his girlfriend the most important question of their lives; the birth of his first son; his enlistment into the SAS; meeting Price and Gaz for the first time; fighting alongside Staff Sergeant Griggs and his marines as their joint operation to find Zakhaev continued; killing Zakhaev.

He remembered seeing Price fall in Pripyat; Roach and him climbing the mountains of Kazakhstan; Ghost and Roach on a team against him in a friendly game of chess; receiving a medal from General Shepherd; assaulting the Gulag; discovering that the best friend he'd ever had was alive; watching his friends and allies die around him in a sudden ambush in the Boneyard; learning of Roach's death at the hands of Shepherd; hunting down that traitor and killing him; learning of Ghost's betrayal, and then, finally, the deaths of Kamarov and Price, and the betrayal of one whom they thought they could trust with their lives.

He watched as his blood formed into a thick, dark pool around him. He saw Yuri crawling over to him, shaking him, yelling at him to stay awake. But why would he care? Why would someone like Yuri care? In the distance, he heard a familiar voice calling his name.

**Yuri**

"Pick him up, we're leaving!" Price screamed at Yuri. His charred, tattered outfit was still smoking from the force of the explosion. His face was covered in bruises and cuts, blood leaking from wounds across his exposed skin. Gunshots flew around them, RPGs flying at the ground and buildings to try and destroy them.

Yuri picked up Soap and together the two limped after Price. Yuri felt something warm on him and looked down, seeing Soap's life spill out onto the ground. He quickened his pace and followed Price through the buildings.

Along the way, Soap told Price to call Nikolai so he could get patched up and continue the fight. Makarov was in the city; they had to kill him now! Price, however, saw the reason that Soap did not and refused to do as Soap said. They continued through the city, Soap's skin becoming progressively more pale. They could not keep going for long. Once they fought their way to the courtyards, they set Soap down near a building. Price worked on the lock of a door while Yuri held off Makarov's men.

When he ran out of ammunition in his M4A1, he drew his pistol and picked off men one by one. Soap's hand feebly raised, his fingers shaking in the air. He was muttering random words as he bled to death. Yuri grabbed his hand and told him to keep holding on.

The door flung open and Russian soldiers filed out. Price was about to open fire when he realized that these were all men from Kamarov's resistance. They helped them to carry Soap in, taking him to a table. They cleared it out and laid him on its wooden surface. He continued to bleed, staining to old table. Price and Yuri applied pressure to Soap's wounds, Price screaming for a medic. Soap was muttering something the whole time. Yuri leaned closer to his mouth to listen. He was saying 'Price.'

"Price!" Yuri cried. He looked at Yuri, who, in turn, pointed to Soap. Price leaned over and spoke to him directly.

"What is it, son?" Price asked. "What is it?"

"Price, he knows," he whispered. Price caught on rather quick that he was talking about Makarov. He didn't, however, understand that Soap was trying to tell Price about Yuri.

"What does he know?" Price asked. "What does he know about us? Our plans? Safe houses? What?" Soap grabbed Price's shirt and pulled himself towards Price.

"You need to know," he croaked. He was shaking, his body heat lowering. He was shivering from the cold. Death had begun to touch him. "Makarov…he, he knows….he knows…YURI!" With that, Captain John 'Soap' MacTavish, a decorated war veteran, awarded British SAS soldier, and disavowed warrior of the prestigious Task Force 141, breathed his last. Yuri removed his hands and stared down at him in disbelief.

He couldn't believe it; Soap MacTavish, a legend on his own, was gone. He was…he was gone. Price's eyes were wide; it was like a curious child staring down at the lifeless body. What was going on through his mind? That answer was given to him almost instantly.

"Soap, come on, get up," Price said. "We've got to move, Nikolai will be here any moment now." Yuri 's eyes felt heavy when he said that; he could feel a tear fall from his eye. "Come on, you bastard, get the bloody hell up!"

He began shaking Soap, trying to wake him. He became furious, shaking him more and more, even hitting him. "Get up! We have to go, Soap! You've never failed me before and you're not going to start now! COME ON!" Finally, realization began to dawn on him.

"No….no….no, no, no, no, NO!" He began to shake Soap again, sobbing as he realized his friend had died. He stood there, ignoring the pleas of the resistance to move and get out of the city. Price took out his journal, slipping it into his pocket. Finally, he drew his old M1911, placing it on Soap's chest. He lowered his head in sorrow. "I'm sorry, my friend."

Bullets flew through the windows, cannon shots flying through the windows into the building. Yuri shook Price, finally managing to convince him that they had to leave. He stared at Yuri and nodded. They ran to the door in the back of the building that would lead to the basement and take them to the tunnels that they used to enter Prague.

Price stopped, looking behind him to see Soap one last time. An explosion illuminated his body, the table shaking from underneath him. He blinked away the tears and ran after Yuri. The door refused to open, so Yuri took out his pistol and shot the hinges, yanking open the door. He turned to see if Price was behind him. Price tore the pistol from his hand and, with a look of pure hatred, punched Yuri in the face, sending him flying down the stairs.

When he fell down to the bottom floor, he groaned in pain. What the hell was Price doing? No…no, no, no! He was going to kill him! Yuri struggled to stand, to run away and escape Price. He felt a boot slam onto his chest, a gun barrel in his face. He stared up at Price's darkened face.

"Nikolai thought he could trust you, even Soap did," Price growled. "I thought I could too, but I guess I was wrong." He knelt towards him, putting more pressure on his chest as he dug his heal into him. "So, Yuri, we're going to have a little talk; you're going to answer my questions and I'll let you live. Refuse, and you die here. Now tell me, Yuri; tell me right, bloody fucking now, how the fucking hell, does Makarov know you?!"

**I'm sorry for not updating this story as much as I'd like. I was so much more consistent with my previous works on Call of Duty 4 and Modern Warfare 2 that this is almost insulting. I think, however, that this is due to the fact that I ended up hating Modern Warfare 3 as a whole worse than I hated Modern Warfare 2 for it's terrible multiplayer system. Don't get me wrong, I love the Call of Duty campaigns, but the more and more I played MW3, the less and less I liked CoD as a whole, and I began to enjoy games like Battlefield, Halo, and Medal of Honor more than ever before. I decided against playing Black Ops 2, simply looking up a playthrough for its campaign.**

**I had high hopes for Treyarch; I loved Black Ops, but when I saw that those idiots brought Ghost back, I had lost my faith in Call of Duty. They know for a goddamn fact that we don't like it! They know we have never liked any of that Last Stand, Second Chance, or Final Stand bullshit and they still implement in the game. They still refuse to change the engine which I now know is in truth a remastered copy of the Doom engine. I was so incredibly disappointed that I decided that I won't be buying any more Call of Duty games. **

**I refuse to end this story now. I will finish with a final epilogue once I finish Dust to Dust and the story of Hunter 2-1. I have a big, final plan for the epilogue that I hope you'll all enjoy. I have to say something, however-I am probably leaving FanFiction after this story. I can't write stories for FanFiction while write the book I want to get published, keep up with school work, keep my Youtube Channel up with new content regularly, run cross country and track, work at my job, and play music with my friends all at once. I have to make sacrifices in different areas of my life. I have to say I have truly loved writing for all of you and I will love to finish this story on an epic note.**

**I will keep up my profile-as well as my stories-for you all to see after this is all over. As I am making a Machinima for Youtube, you can still see my writing works in a visual way at youtube wolfgamewalkthroughs / (of course without those spaces in the link). I've had fun doing this and will continue to have fun doing this in the next month or so that it takes me to finish this story. I love all of the encouragement my fans have given me that motivated me to write and start my own novel. Until my next update, this is WOLFxVSlayer667 signing off. **


	23. True Colors

**Another Author's Note Below!**

"True Colors"

Unknown Date, Unknown Time, 1996

Yuri

Ultranationalist Group under Command of Supreme Leader Imran Zakhaev

Chernobyl, Ukraine – Disclosed Location

Yuri knelt on the stone ground, breathing heavily. He lowered his sword to the ground, bowing his head in defeat. Sweat fell from his wearied body to the stone. He looked up at his mentor, Dmitri Kasovach, and felt a wave of defeat wash over him.

"You have won," Yuri panted. "I am sorry for failing you again, sir."

"Your arrogance is what blinds you, comrade," Kasovach replied. He didn't even sound tired! How could that be? "What you must understand is that it does not take the most powerful man to win a fight; rather, it takes a man with a stronger mind to succeed. Once you have mastered control of your mind, then-and only then-will you win every battle."

"Yes, sir," Yuri sighed. He rose to his feet and sheathed his sword. He bowed to Kasovach and walked out of the courtyard into the small stone hut Kasovach resided in. They were in the serene, beautiful landscape of the mountains in Northern Russia. It was here that Yuri and his friend, Nikolai, trained under their kindly mentor, Kasovach.

Kasovach was an old war hero and a former commander in the Russian Spetsnaz. The battles he fought and sacrifices he made in service of the motherland ensured his quiet retirement into the solitary mountains.

He led a quite simple life as a shepherd and a farmer, growing his own food and caring for his livestock as though they were his own children. He was the kind old man that one could only wish that they knew personally. Nikolai and Yuri, however, had attained the privilege, honor, and hospitality of knowing Kasovach. Together, the three would practice the ways of old and new. He taught them to use a massive arsenal of weaponry ranging from swords and bows to assault rifles and heavy ordinance.

Each day, he would take the two out to hunt in the forests, careful to warn them never to shoot a predator. Be in wolf, bear, or any other fierce animal, Kasovach insisted that they must be kept alive. When they inquired as to why, Kasovach would smile at them give them a wise answer to their questions.

"The predators of the land must hunt as well," he responded. "We are all animals in this world, and it is up to us to keep the peace between all living things. Like us, they have members of a larger family that they must care for and protect. They prey is what sustains us, not the predators." Then, of course, they'd ask why the prey was able to be killed rather than the predators. After all, they were animals to, so why was it okay for them to take their lives?

"You must be selective; never pick out prey too young or in its prime. You must hunt down the old, the sick, and the weak. They will corrupt their herd, and we cannot allow them to do so. We must take their lives, and they will willing give us their life to sustain our own. Predators cannot sustain us; they give us only lavish items that we do not require to survive, and therefore, it is pointless to take their lives. That, my friends, is why you must never hunt a predator."

Kasovach was truly one with the world around him, yet he understood the need for self-defense. Hence, he taught them valuable skills to keep them up to speed with the real, dangerous world that they were a part of. When Yuri was attempting to use a Dragunov Class Sniper Rifle, he had a significant amount of trouble using it. Kasovach, however, had more wise words to help him.

"Yuri, you must steady your aim," he advised. "Become the rifle; align your aim. You must not rely on the scope, but on your own senses. You must choose the right moment, for if you miss it, it will never return."

Kasovach was more than just a wise mentor, however; he was a great friend and as close to a father as Nikolai and Yuri could have.

Yuri walked inside, nodding to Nikolai who was studying several papers on the small, circular table. Yuri knelt over to the freshwater pool and splashed his face with water. He turned around and slumped into a chair across from Nikolai. He grinned at Yuri.

"Did he whip you into shape again?" Nikolai asked. Yuri grunted in response.

"So what are you looking at?" Yuri questioned.

"I am researching the art of flight," he explained. "I am thinking of leaving for a while to flight lessons." Yuri's eyes widened.

"You're leaving?"

"Da, I think I will."

"Why?"

"Why not?" Nikolai asked. "The prospect of flight is so broad and wonderful! Don't you think it would be great to be able to fly?"

"Has that British man been telling you to do this?" Yuri inquired suspiciously. "That man, Price?" Nikolai laughed in response.

"No, he hasn't convinced me of anything," he replied. "He has his own troubles hunting down Ultranationalists. I haven't heard from him since yesterday; probably on the hunt for that man, Zakhaev." Yuri's throat tightened and his jaw clenched. Price was hunting for Zakhaev? How would they take to this news? Yuri had to meet with the Ultranationalist party to make a deal with Khaled Al-Asad to join their cause soon. Would he have to break the news to Zakhaev that he was being hunted?

No, that wasn't wise; Zakhaev's rage had to be kept in check. If his son wasn't near-and he wouldn't be at this meeting-then Zakhaev was more than likely to kill him out of pure anger. After all, Zakhaev was always being hunted, so would it make any difference? No; he wouldn't inform them. He didn't need to.

Yuri shook his head and walked over to his pack, grabbing and AEK-971 from a rack and began to leave. Kasovach entered and saw him about to leave.

"Where are you going?" He asked.

"I have business south," he replied curtly. "I have to go or I'll be missed."

"Business, eh?" He asked, his eyes motioning to the rifle. "With that?"

"Never can be too careful in this time, right?" Yuri joked. Kasovach didn't seem impressed. "Look, I'll be fine. It's just a small meeting and I'll return." Kasovach nodded and gave him a brief blessing. He left the two with a wave and set out down to his car. He drove out of the mountains where he met up with three armored vehicles. In one was Vladimir Makarov. Yuri parked his car and removed his rifle and bags.

Makarov nodded to him and they all set out to Ukraine, completely out of the country entirely. In two days, they had made it to Chernobyl. The abandoned city set an eerie mood for the meeting. Yuri couldn't believe that so many people had lived there before the nuclear disaster had forced the fifty thousand souls out of the city. As they made their way through the old ruins, Yuri laid back to get some much needed sleep.

Soon enough, he felt a prod at his side. He opened his eyes to see Makarov staring at him.

"Zakhaev wouldn't want you to miss this, my friend," Makarov said. Yuri sat up straight and looked out of the window to see the deal already being made. "This deal will generate millions for our cause. Our legend begins here, my friend."

Yuri wasn't watching the deal, however. He saw something in the distance; a light. It appeared to be a glare from a lens. He squinted his eyes and tried to see what it was. There it was again! It had to be a lens! Then again, it could simply be an old mirror or piece of glass that was reflecting in the light. No, no he saw something move!

"FUCK!" Yuri leaped forward and pointed out the sniper to Makarov. His eyes widened and they scrambled forward…but they were too late. The bullet flew right into Zakhaev. His arm flew off, blood flowing like a crimson river from the useless stump where the arm had been severed. Ultranationalists and Al-Asad's soldiers scrambled everywhere, driving away.

Yuri and Makarov, however, carried Zakhaev into the car and drove off, running over anyone that would get in their way. The two had saved Imran's life, and for that, he was forever in their debt.

**FIFTEEN YEARS LATER**

Yuri followed Makarov up the stone-slab stairs to the roof of the safe house. The dark sky was ominous enough on its own, but to see the burning city in the distance added a bit of emphasis on that dark feel. American helicopters flew around the city. For a moment, Yuri thought of what Nikolai had told him all those years ago, about wanting to fly.

He blinked away tears of sorrow; he had promised them that he'd return; but he never did. Ever since they gave Zakhaev proper medical attention, he became too entangled in their ways, in their issues. He didn't have the time to contact them. What would he even say to them? Sorry, friends; I'm busy helping the Ultranationalists so I can't come back ever again. I hope you all have a great life without me! No, it just would not work.

"Today," Makarov declared. "We shall show the world our true strength."

"Just what is that?" Yuri asked. He was still not fully informed as to their full plan. Makarov grinned. There was something evil and malicious about that grin. "You shall see, my friend." He pulled out a radio and found the right frequency.

"This is General Shepherd, is that you, Kingfish?" It was an American man. American? What was going on?

"Affirmative," Makarov replied. "Is it ready?"

"It's in the city and waiting for remote detonation," he replied. "You better hold your end of the bargain, Makarov, or I'll-"

"I'm well aware," Makarov silenced him. "Just do it." With that, he clicked off on the radio and the two looked out over the city. The Americans were retreating from the city. But wait, why would they-?

Suddenly, the horizon flashed as an explosion of massive proportions ignited in the core of the city. The helicopters that had survived the initial blast began to spiral out of control when flying debris, smoke, and even people flew into them. They all crashed to the bottom of the city as a massive, blood-red mushroom cloud formed in the center.

It was a nuclear bomb. The madman! How could any sane human being do that? Thousands of men and women; they're lives were all extinguished simply the push of a button. Yuri's breathing was shaky. He looked over at Makarov in shock. He returned the look.

"Remember this, Yuri," he said. "This; this is only the beginning." With that, he walked away. This was not war; no, this was madness.

**FOUR YEARS LATER**

"Let him go!" Yuri cried. "He never did anything wrong!" Makarov held Kasovach at gunpoint. The old man was beaten, bloodied, bruised, and looked more frail and old than he had ever looked before. Two men held Yuri back as he tried to reach Kasovach.

It wasn't the look of his mentor that tore Yuri apart; it was the disappointment in his eyes that had destroyed Yuri. He had failed his mentor in every way possible. He had joined the enemy he had sworn to Kasovach that he would never cease to fight. How could he betray his friend like this? There was no humane way to do so. He had never felt so ashamed in his life.

"We had a pleasant talk, your mentor and I," Makarov said. "And we've determined that we both think very similarly. You can't be in our allegiance with him. It's either us, or it's Kasovach, Yuri. You must decide now; you may stand with us, or you may stand with him and die with him. It's your choice, Yuri."

"If I join you, will you let him go?" Yuri asked.

"No, you must prove your allegiance with us," Makarov said darkly.

"Fine!" Yuri said. "Fine, I'll do it! I'll do anything just let him go!" Makarov obliged, allowing Kasovach to slump to the ground on his knees. Makarov put a gun in Yuri's hand. It didn't take a genius to know what he wanted Yuri to do.

"No," Yuri sobbed. "No, please; I-I can't do it. Please, just let him go."

"It you'd rather us kill you and him, it's your choice," Makarov snarled. "Now prove whose side you are on!" Yuri lowered his sight to Kasovach. Those old, familiar eyes that he had known for over twenty years shakily met his. Makarov and his men filed out of the hut, leaving Yuri and Kasovach alone. Tears fell from Yuri's face.

"Do it, Yuri," Kasovach ordered. Yuri met his gaze. "I cannot live knowing the man I took in as my pupil, the man I took in as though he were my own _son_, has betrayed us. I no longer wish to live in this misery. Do it, Yuri; and know this: you shall _never_ be redeemed." Yuri sobbed as he lifted his arm, aiming the barrel at his head. He didn't even hear the gunshot; he was crying too hard.

**ONE YEAR LATER**

Why was the General's agent beating him? He called the United States government to inform them of the danger. The General he'd talked to said he'd send in his best man, and that 'best man' was beating Yuri to death! He was supposed to help Yuri kill Makarov, not help Makarov kill Russian civilians!

"I know what you have done, Yuri," Makarov's voice hissed. His voice was sly like a snake as he materialized from the darkness. He was the true embodiment of evil. "I know what you have told them. You are many things, comrade; you are a friend. You are an ally. But now, you are a betrayer." Yuri snarled and fought to attack Makarov.

"You think I'm the betrayer, you foolish piece of shit?" Yuri growled. "How about you ask what Alexi's real name is and call me a traitor again!" He punched Yuri again and again until Makarov told him to stop.

"I know full well who he is," Makarov replied. "He is Alexi Borodin, a very supporting member of what's left of our noble cause. Today, we will change the world forever. Nothing can stop this, Yuri; no one, not even you." With that final word, a bullet flew from Makarov's sidearm, sinking into Yuri's flesh. He gasped, the unbearable pain stealing the cry from his mouth.

He crumpled to the ground as the five demonic men walked away. Yuri, however, was not out of the fight. Not yet. He dragged himself forward, climbing into the elevator lift. But it was too late. They were already there.

"Remember," Makarov said, his voice echoing through Yuri's radio link. "No Russian." The screams of terror as bullets and shotgun shells flew into the crowd of innocent Russian civilians was too much for Yuri to take. When the door opened, he saw a dead security guard. He crawled over to the man and drew his pistol.

Yuri was a soldier of Russia, not a taker of innocent lives. In the eyes of Makarov, however, that made him the enemy. Yuri limped after them, firing at them as they killed more and more, trail of blood and corpses was all that was left. Yuri didn't hit them, his vision fading and aim leaving. They walked by, murdering more and more.

Yuri collapsed, his last sights of a Russian medical officer leaning over him before his world faded away.

**PRESENT DAY**

"Alright Yuri," Captain Price growled. He grabbed Yuri by his shirt collar and pulled him to his feet. "I don't know what else you've been hiding and I don't care enough about your life to ask but I'll tell you this: you've bought yourself some time. I'm very keen on killing Makarov at this point and you're going to help me avenge the death that you caused. If you refuse, I'll kill you now and continue on my own. You've bought yourself some time…for now."

**Well, isn't this a surprise? Two updates in two days? That's insane! I wanted to give Yuri and the entire Modern Warfare storyline a bit of a deeper backstory to it with this chapter, so I'd like to hear your feedback! Thanks for reading, and I'll try to get the next chapter (and yes, it will be what my fans really seem to like again: a return to the story of Hunter 2-1) up at the latest next week. Thanks for reading and make sure to tell me how I'm doing! Until next time,**

** -WOLFxVSlayer667**


	24. Dust to Dust

"Dust to Dust"

January 21st, 2017 – 22:14:54 (Several Months Later)

Captain John Price

Task Force 141

Arabian Peninsula

_They were gone. Soap, Sandman, Grinch, Truck, Frost…everyone. They were all gone. They had passed into the unwelcoming void. The Russian President and his daughter had been saved from Makarov's clutches, but at a terrible cost. So much had transpired over the past months that Price's boggled mind seemed unable to comprehend it all._

_ Yuri and Nikolai spent most of their downtime-if in truth, one could call it downtime-searching any databanks, mainframes, com chatter, every possible thing they could slice into in countless attempts to find Makarov. Price had been silent._

_ The World War was over and for the first time in centuries, it seemed as though nobody wanted to fight anymore. There were no armies in any countries save for their own, and from what people could tell, the Ultranationalist groups had disappeared from the planet. There was no one left of the feared organization that had plagued the world since 2011. For the moment, the world was simply working on rebuilding itself._

_ There was no finger pointing. No true or false accusations as to who started the war. All that was there was a united people working together to rebuild. The United States and Russia had been hit the hardest along with several large cities in France, Germany, and Britain. Paris was deemed uninhabitable. Similarly, London, Berlin, Moscow, Los Angeles, Detroit, and the majority of Washington DC were included. Either by the poisonous gas unleashed by Fregata Industries or by nuclear warheads, those cities were never going to be rebuilt. Not in the current generation._

_ The Task Force 141-well, the two survivors of the hundreds of men-were no longer on the run. Yuri continued to stay with Nikolai and Price, but was under the hatred-filled eyes of the captain. On several occasions, Nikolai and Yuri were forced to restrain Price after several self-attempts on his own life. Suicidal tendencies were not unknown to military war veterans, but they never expected Price to be broken. Not like this._

_ It crushed Nikolai to see his friend so distraught. After nearly a decade of knowing him, he'd never seen him so out of sorts. Yuri was affected as well, blaming the ordeal on himself. He still knew not how Makarov knew that they were waiting for him in Prague. He didn't know how Makarov was aware that he'd survived the massacre. He wondered now if Makarov was aware that he'd survived again. It amused him in a grim way to know how furious Makarov would be to discover that he had been incredibly sloppy with killing him. On several occasions, he'd failed to exact the pinpoint precision of a killing blow on Yuri. _

Perhaps,_ he though. _Perhaps fate is willing to give me a chance at revenge._ Fate or luck, he knew that killing Makarov was perhaps the only way to clear his name and to reap vengeance for the death of his beloved mentor. Although Yuri firmly trusted Nikolai and Price, the same could not be said vice versa. Even Nikolai had not known about what happened to Kasovach save that he was killed by Makarov. When Nikolai learned that his own friend betrayed him, his foundation of trust was badly shaken. _

_ Yuri couldn't blame them. After all, what worth was a traitor? He had betrayed his friends, and then betrayed Makarov and his men. What can be said for Yuri? He can only have the hope to gain retribution from his acts and redeem himself of the wrongs he committed, of the death and chaos that he'd wrought._

_ Finally, it seemed, after months of searching, they'd found a solid lead. Makarov and the last of his supporters were holed up in one location, hiding in plain sight. Makarov, once again, had been sloppy. He and every last man that had followed his lunacy were in the same public building in a city in the Arabic Peninsula. _

_ Finally, contact was made. Makarov was on the com line. Yuri rushed into Price's study and woke him urgently, alerting him. Finally, it was time to meet their foe. Price took the com and heard the sly voice from the other end._

_ "Who is this?" Makarov demanded._

_ "Prisoner 6-2-7," Price growled. "You've grown sloppy, Makarov. Curious; this isn't like you. Perhaps as you age, your demonic mind dwindles. Know this: you are my one true enemy, and I'm coming for you."_

_ "Ah, Price," Makarov exclaimed. Amusement coiled in his speech like a snake. "You must not have heard, my friend! They say the war is over."_

_ "No, my war ends with you."_

_ "Is that so, Captain? Dear old man, please do tell, does your war end like it did for Captain MacTavish? Please, how long did it take him to die? You know, Price, that I've destroyed your world piece by individual piece. It will not take much to destroy what is left of you. I will find you, Price; and when I do, I will end you."_

_ Yuri held up a small note to Price. Price smiled when he read the numbers. They were the exact latitude and longitude coordinates triangulated by Makarov's call. Perhaps there was finally some hope. Strange, Price had almost forgotten what hope felt like._

_ "Don't worry, enemy of my enemy," Price replied. "You won't have to look far."_

"Are you sure these suits will protect us?" Yuri questioned nervously. The lumbering behemoths residing inside of the truck loaded their weapons, securing armor to themselves, extra ammunition underneath it. Price had to commend MacMillan; he'd managed to supply them with scavenged and refurbished Juggernaut Issue armor that were recovered from the Boneyards in Afghanistan from the remnants of Shepherd's Shadow Company. The movement was slow and sluggish and the suits were incredibly uncomfortable, but if it was strong enough to take on the small army of Ultranationalist soldiers inside of the luxury hotel.

Price had seen the schematics of the place; it was an undercover building Makarov had been using for years. To know that the evil man had lived there for so long, even since Zakhaev was in power, angered Price beyond belief. He'd seen the pictures; the man had lived a life not dissimilar to Adolf Hitler. He lived like a king, armed soldiers constantly protecting the hotel, their staff uniforms disguising their true intent.

On occasion, Makarov would take women with him and take advantage of them, turning them into whores until he grew tired of them and killed them for his own fun and entertainment. It disgusted Price to hear that, but he knew that evil men would commit evil acts. Nikolai warned them that it would take time to accurately track Makarov; as he said, his Arabic was 'a bit rusty.' Price looked at Yuri as bullets began to impact against the metallic rear door of the car.

"Looks like they know we're here," Price observed. "This armor will buy us some time, but one way or another, this all ends here." They donned their protective helmets, now covering every inch of their bodies. Yuri tapped his helmet and grabbed his M249 Light Machinegun. Price was well accustomed to the weapon as well, grabbing his after slinging and M4A1 Carbine to his back. They leaned next to the door and Price looked at Yuri one last time. "This is for Soap."

With that, they burst through the door, guns blazing as the startled mercenaries leaped for cover. Their unarmored bodies were torn apart by the vicious force of the M249's armor piercing rounds. The spinning projectiles tore through sinew and bone, limbs being shredded and destroyed by the mere force of the rounds. The intense recoil of the guns was difficult for the two to manage with the cumbersome Juggernaut suits, but when firing in bursts, they were able to both manage ammunition and destroy their enemies.

Cars sped forward full of troops, but Makarov's army would not help him. The cars weren't outfitted for bullet protection, and when the rounds penetrated the engines and fuselage, they burst into shockwaves of flame and metal, those riding inside obliterated by the blast.

They continued their steady march on the hotel, taking out every one of the soldiers as they hunted for Makarov. Civilians rushed out of the hotel in a frenzied panic, RPG wielding soldiers firing at the two of them. Juggernaut armor was not meant for such weapons, forcing the two to hit the ground and take cover from the grenades. Yuri suppressed the RPG wielders while Price took them out with precision and prejudice.

They lumbered into the hotel, its luxury and beauty quickly turning into chaos and destruction. Artwork and intricate designs of furniture and other objects inside the hotel were destroyed in the firefights, the blood staining the floors and walls, the stench of death lingering in the air. Price reloaded his M249 as Yuri gave cover fire. With that, the two continued, both on a quest for vengeance.

"Makarov has hailed a chopper from the city," Nikolai reported. "I can't take it out from here, so you'll have hurry it up! The pilots will reach the roof in less than fifteen minutes!"

"Roger that, Nikolai!" Price complied. "We're at the elevators now; we'll be at the top soon!" More civilians rushed past them, some trampling each other in their harried escape. They climbed into the elevator nearby, causing it to lean slightly from the weight of their armor. They started the elevator, steadily climbing to the top of the tower.

Two flying objects appeared over the massive expanse of water; the helicopters Makarov requested for had arrived. Price and Yuri instinctually opened fire on the little bird, their bullets flying through the elevator lift before the pilots could open fire on them. They killed the pilots, but the spiraling helicopter smashed into their lift and exploded. The blast sent Price into the wall, fire coating their armor.

Yuri tore his off and threw it out of the lift, assisting Price's in return. Now, they were down to light armor underneath their Task Force 141 uniforms. Price unruffled his hat and donned it, amusing Yuri; he seemed to be nothing without that old, tethered hat. Yuri directed his attention to the badly damaged lift and radioed Nikolai.

"Nikolai, our armor's shredded and we need another lift!"

"What the hell happened?" Nikolai asked incredulously. "Juggernaut armor is supposed to be reliable!"

"Not against a crashing helicopter!" Yuri snarled. "Now get us another lift or this mission is done before we get a chance to really start it!"

"Copy, sending you another lift now!" Nikolai said.

Price tossed his M249, no longer needing it without its ammunition. He picked up his M4A1 and loaded a magazine into the cartridge, watching Yuri pace about the burning lift. He scowled and called Nikolai again, but a lift finally arrived next to them. Their lift creaked and moaned, so Yuri fired several rounds into the glass walls of the other lift, and the two leaped.

Their former lift could no longer take it, crashing below just as they clambered on their new lift. Nikolai continued to send the lift to the top floor, Yuri and Price anticipating the new set of gunfights they would have to go through. Thought as they did, they were met with several emplacements of Ultranationalists. They ran forward, doing everything they could to catch Makarov before he escaped again.

Bullets flew around the massive room, fires igniting and explosions annihilating the architecture of the elaborate building. Yuri and Price were in a sort of daze as they fought, the gunfights becoming nothing more to them than obstacles between them and Makarov. Price, for the first time in his life, wondered what went through the minds of these men as they died for Makarov. Did they have families that would miss them when they were gone? What was the full cost of these small, insignificant battles when they should all be working to fight the same war.

Makarov was the one they wanted, not these people that could have been forced to do what they do now. They rushed forward nevertheless, entering a large bar. At the other end, Price's eyes met the cold, dark voids that were Makarov's. Price roared and opened fire, Yuri doing the same. They sprinted forward, but not before rockets from Makarov's helicopter smashed into the bar, cutting them off from their target.

The support struts failed and crumbled from beneath them, sending them tumbling towards the ocean below. Price dug his knife into the wooden floor, halting his descent, and then began to climb towards a level surface. He reached the top, searching for his weapon. What he found, however, was Yuri; a metal beam had impaled him, sticking halfway through his abdomen. He coughed up blood as he looked at his wound in disbelief.

"Yuri…" Price breathed in shock. Yuri turned his gaze to Price.

"Leave me!" He snarled. "Do not let him get away!" Price was, for a moment, at a loss for what to do. He hesitated, wanting to help Yuri in any way that he could, hopefully to save him like he could not save Soap. Yet he knew that Yuri was right; they couldn't let him get away. Not again. This was their last chance to end the war. Price nodded to Yuri and sprinted ahead through the doorway that Makarov had exited from.

Nikolai shouted to Price in the com link, notifying him that Makarov was in his chopper and leaving. Price quickened his pace, arriving on the landing platform. The door of the Little Bird slammed shut at it began to ascend. Price ran forward and jumped, catching the bottom of the helicopter and pulling himself up. He yanked open the door to the cockpit, knocking away a swift kick from the pilot. He grabbed the man's foot and pulled him out and over the helicopter, sending the screaming man hundreds of meters to the ground below.

Price clambered inside the Little Bird and knocked away several shots from the co-pilot's gun, stabbing the man in the throat and kicking him out of the helicopter. Makarov lunged from the back, fighting to push Price out and take control of the helicopter. Price fought back, driving the helicopter towards the building. If he could crash it and kill them both, at least Makarov's reign would finally be over.

The smashed into the roof, sending the two of them flailing outside onto the rapidly cracking glass pane above the bar that led to the veranda. Price coughed and spat out blood, then looked back to the burning wreckage of the Little Bird to see the dark figure emerge from the flames. He clutched at his bleeding side, stumbling towards an object in the middle of the glass pane: a Desert Eagle class pistol.

Price quickly crawled towards it, noticing something wrong with his leg that prevented him from standing upright. He looked briefly and realized that from the middle of his femur down, his leg was torn off. Bone and tissue protruded from the ungraceful stump where his right leg used to be. Blood began to drip off of it, painting the glass a crimson hue. Despite this, he continued forward. He grabbed the barrel of the gun, but Makarov slammed his heel into his fingers. Price growled in pain as Makarov tore the gun from his grip.

Price looked up at Makarov, the dark barrel pointed to his head. The fire gleamed in Makarov's eyes. The irises turned a sickly amber, blood falling from a large gash on his forehead. His hair was matted with blood and his clothing was torn and scorched. He was in worse shape than Price could have imagined, yet he still lived. Makarov was the living embodiment of evil, a true modern demon of the world. And now…now he was going to end the war and kill Price. They had failed. Makarov sneered, his torn lip revealing gums that had been badly burned and ripped in the blast, the roots of his teeth protruding from the roof of his mouth.

"This is how the war ends," Makarov mused. "With a final fight. You have fought valiantly, my friend, but in the end, you cannot win. Goodbye, Captain Price." A bullet flew through Makarov's shoulder, blood flying outward. He cried in pain and stumbled. Price looked to see Yuri stumbling towards him, the bloody beam held in the grip of his left hand, a pistol held in his right. Makarov lost his grip on the Desert Eagle, sending it sprawling on the other end of the glass pane.

Yuri's eyes were glazed and blood poured from his wounds, yet he still lumbered on. Makarov met him and punched him in the face, yanking the pistol from him and bringing it up under his chin. He fired a single round through his skull, brain matter flying from the top. Yuri's eyes turned and his corpse collapsed in a bloody heap on the ground.

Price snarled and leaped at Makarov, slamming him to the ground. He knocked the pistol away and began to ruthlessly punch Makarov in the face. He chocked him, slammed his head on the glass, and repeated the process. He saw a rope nearby from a toolbox that had been thrown free from the little bird. Its end was snared inside of the Little Bird, but the end was free. Price quickly grabbed it and wrapped it tightly around Makarov's neck. Price slammed Makarov on the glass pane, each slam cracking the glass more and more.

"This is for the marines that you murdered five years ago!" Price screamed. His voice was filled with passion and fury, wanting to let this evil man know exactly what he had done to affect Price and others around him. "This is for Kasovach, who never did anything to wrong you! For Gaz and Griggs, who died in service for what they believed! For Ghost and Roach, who were betrayed! For the Task Force 141 that were killed and died as outcasts and traitors!

"This is for Wallcroft and Griffin, who died protecting the innocent! For the millions of civilians that you murdered so you could watch the world tear itself apart! For Sandman, Grinch, Frost, and Truck, who died to rescue those that considered them their enemy! For Nikolai's men that died at the hands of your henchmen! For Yuri, that died seeking revenge for being forced to murder his friend! And this…_THIS IS FOR SOAP!_"

Price slammed him forcefully into the glass pane, smashing through. Makarov screamed in horror and fury the entire way down, reaching for Price as they fell. Suddenly, they jerked and send Price flying onto table nearby. He looked to see Makarov swing towards him, reaching out to grab him. Hate filled his eyes, his fingers reaching out like demonic claws. He gurgled and squeaked, trying to say something, but the noose had tightened around Makarov's neck tightly and efficiently. He swung around before finally coming to a steady drift. His eyes glared forward, blood trickling from his lips.

Price gasped, breathing heavily. His leg was numb, but luckily it wasn't bleeding too much. He tore off strips of his uniform and made a makeshift cast around the wound, halting the blood flow that was sure to ensue and blocking the blood from coming out. He took a look at Makarov, expecting him to come back and try to kill him again. But the corpse hung, the deathly stare no longer focused on him. Price breathed a sigh of relief, and then began to sob to himself, his pain and anger finally coming out. Tears fell into his beard and dampened it. He cried like a child, holding himself tightly.

He cried out to those he had lost, to those he'd never see again. He wept for those that would not be able to come back, for those that would never be able to live out the rest of their lives. He sat there, beginning to choke on his tears and snot running from his nose. The old, sad man cried and cried and cried. He would not stop for a while more. He tore off his dog tags and stared at them. Then, he looked at Makarov.

It was over. It was finally over. The Ultranationalist threat had been at large since the late eighties. He had hunted them ever since 1987, spending a total of thirty painful years fighting a war that he could have easily sat out of. He had lost more than he'd ever imagined and lived through everything that seemed that to be impossible to most. Finally, at long last…it was over. It was finally over.

15 Years Later

Ramirez walked through the hangar bay. He wore dark jeans and a black jacket over a white T-Shirt. He carried a large green duffel bag over his back. His hair was cut and his scars were covered. They had survived the assault on Moscow and every battle that they fought in the United States. He approached a pilot exiting her F22 Fighter Jet. She saw him and walked towards him.

"Hey," she greeted happily.

"Hey, Claire," he replied. "I heard you were back to flying."

"Does that surprise you?"

"Well after I heard what happened to you in LA after that Cordis Die guy attacked, I thought you'd be the last one to go back up there."

"Well flying is something I'm not about to give up," she said. "Where's Dunn?"

"With his family in Oregon," he informed her. "It's the first time they've seen each other since World War III. They've been hiding out in an old bunker for years, and he's decided to quit the army and stay with them."

"What about you?" She inquired. "Where's your path lie?" Ramirez shifted his weight uncomfortably.

"I'm done, too," he replied. "I've seen enough action for one lifetime. I'm going to stop buy Foley's grave on the way back to Arcadia and rebuild my old home." She nodded solemnly, leaning against her plane. "You can come with me if you want. We don't have to stay with the army anymore. We've done our service, what else is there to give?"

"You've done yours," she replied. "But I'm not finished here. Not yet. I'm sticking with these guys for a while more. People are still scared that Menendez is going to come back. He's no martyr, which is lucky for us, but he's definitely still alive and even his supporters are terrified that he'll come back and take control of our drones and other tech."

"I got it," Ramirez said, disappointed. "Well, I hope that you'll be fine out there. Good luck." He began to walk away, but she grabbed him, turned him around and kissed him hard on his lips. He held her, returning the kiss. They stood there for a small eternity, locked into each other before slowly pulling away.

"I'll come back to you when my tour's over," she said. "Eighteen months, my love."

"Eighteen months," he repeated, smiling. He walked away into a new day, his life looking towards a bright future.

Price was seventy three years old. It took him a long time to finally find Soap's wife and family, but they were alive and well. Soap would have been ecstatic to hear that. He shared her pain when he informed her of his friends passing, offering his services to help raise her children.

They called him Uncle Price. Of course, he wasn't their biological uncle, but it made him happy for them to call him that nevertheless. The young, rambunctious children always wanted to hear his old war stories. They were incredibly interested to hear stories about their father. Admittedly, he would over exaggerate some of the things that Soap accomplished, but for the most part, everything he told them about their father was true.

They called him the greatest super hero that ever lived. It was a well-deserved title for him. In all cases, he was, in truth, a real super hero. He was a hero, a warrior, and father, lover, and the greatest friend that Price ever had the privilege of knowing.

MacMillan had passed three years earlier. He felt guilty for not remaining in contact with his old friend and mentor, but attended the funeral and gave words of greatness for the man he knew. He did likewise for Soap and Yuri. Yuri's only attendants were Price and Nikolai, but they were sure that Yuri would have loved to see that the two friends he had left were there to remember him and bury him.

Nikolai had personally crafted Price's new leg. He was forever in his debt for doing so, and for several years, the two talked and walked the streets of Whales, England as friends. It was the first time they'd ever done anything as friends, not simply the warrior and informant relationship they'd kept since the nineties. They shared jokes and memories of past adventures, always making a toast to their fallen friends when they went out for breakfast, lunch, or dinner.

It was around 2022 that they stopped talking. It had nothing to do with any arguments or anything else. They had simply not contacted each other. Price knew not of Nikolai's whereabouts, nor could he find out. He no longer used the same com channel and could not be found in any logs or databanks. He spent weeks slicing into the Russian networks in an attempt to track him down, but Nikolai seemed to have gotten there first. He had erased his file from all known networks on the planet.

He didn't know why Nikolai did so, but he knew that Nikolai must be doing something out there, and he doubted that he had forgotten Price. It would be impossible for either of them to forget. Price trusted the man's abilities to stay in hiding. He could take care of himself, no doubt, and that reassured him that Nikolai was living his life as any man could.

In the year 2031, Price began to no longer contact Soap's wife and children. They'd all grown up and had no time to talk to the old, tired war veteran, nor did they have the time to hear stories about their father. Two of them joined the SAS, another became a lawyer, and his only daughter pursued politics. Soap's wife was now an old woman. Her amnesia landed her in an elderly home in London. She was cared for there, and she was safe.

Price was now an old man walking a lonely road. He had lost everyone and everything, and now he walked towards the old clock tower in Hereford. He walked inside, feeling the old stone walls of the tower, reading the endless names inscribed on the walls of those fallen in past centuries of combat. Price found his list and read the names out loud:

_Staff Sergeant Gaz_

_Sergeant Griggs_

_Sergeant Gary 'Roach' Sanderson_

_Lieutenant Sam 'Ghost' O'Reilly_

_First Lieutenant James 'Wallcroft' Boswell_

_Private Peter 'Griffin' Hemingway_

_Captain Frederick MacMillan_

_Captain John 'Soap' MacTavish_

_Sergeant First Class Christopher 'Sandman' Johnson_

_Private Jamal 'Grinch' Hutchinson_

_Private First Class Avery 'Truck' Matthews_

_Sergeant Derek 'Frost' Westbrook_

_Corporal Yuri Dimitrijevick_

_Captain Nikolai Belinski_

Price admired his years of carving, tears leaking from his eyes as he read the names of his friends. Makarov was right about one thing: all it takes to start the next global conflict was the will of a single man. Price had kept his own personal conflict alive for thirty years and now, now it was over. He pulled out a hammer and chisel, tediously carving one last name into the stone. Sweat beaded his forehead, and when people saw the old man at work in the tower, they nodded their regards and respects and walked away.

He carved from dawn until dusk, and then he was finally finished. He allowed one more tear to fall, and then he stood straight and saluted the names. He would not come back to this place, nor would he have any need to in the future. It was time for him to live the life he'd never had the full chance of knowing. Four generations of his family had fought in wars, and he was no exception. There would be no offspring of him to continue that epic legacy, a mercy he hoped would be respectable.

He took a long drink from his water flask and slung it back over his shoulder. He dipped his hat to the names, and then left into the cool night. Price was found dead on a bench overlooking the majestic Atlantic Ocean the next day. He was buried next to the graves of Soap and Yuri. Nikolai visited the next day to pay his respects, along with Soap's children and four hundred SAS troops. It was a funeral fit for a hero.

Nikolai wept for the death of his friend, then tore his dog tags from his neck and placed them at the base of his grave, apologizing for not talking to him, but promising to pay his final respects and record his name in the clock tower.

So the next day, Nikolai went forward with a heavy heart, carrying a hammer and chisel, ready to honor his friend in the only way he still could. The British flag waved in front of the tower's entrance, a final memento from the country that owed him so much. Nikolai entered the tower and found the list of names that was unmistakably Price's handy work. He took out the tools and was ready to carve when he saw something that startled him. It was a name written at the bottom of the list, one that Nikolai nor anyone else wrote.

He smiled, tears streaking his face. The crazy old fool had shocked Nikolai again. He put the tools away and saluted the names, then walked out. The sunlight shined through the open doorway, illuminating the final name on the list of the fallen.

_Captain John Price._

**A/N: This is my final story. I apologize to those that expected more chapters, but my life is so incredibly busy that it wouldn't surprise me if I completely abandoned it or didn't finish it for another year. I had this chapter to write, and I poured my heart into writing it. I cannot thank my fans enough for the past year I've spent on this site. Throughout my three stories of this epic trilogy, throughout my shaken faith in the Call of Duty games, I continued to write for you. **

**As I continue to keep up my Youtube Channel, write my own book, get through the last year of High School, keep playing video games, and continuing on with my life, I will keep this account up so you can read my first stories. I hope that I've successfully given you a trilogy to follow and I thank all of you once more for reading this. It would mean the world to me if all of my followers could review this chapter, this story, or all of the stories. It doesn't matter, I'd just like to see you guys give a final review. I can't think of much else to say aside from thank you. Thanks, I'll never forget the experience of writing this.**

**Thank you once again, and let us never forget this series. Although it's met with its downfall, I'll never forget the hours, days, weeks, and years of fun I had with friends and others on Xbox LIVE, PSN, and even some PC networks from Call of Duty Classic to Black Ops 2. This is the final chapter of my final story. This is Wolf signing off for the final time. See you later.**

**-WOLF**


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